


Blood of the Direwolf

by Valkyrist



Series: The Scattered Wolves [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkyrist/pseuds/Valkyrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arya Stark returns to Westeros to avenge the deaths of her family. After a brutal confrontation with the Lord of the Dreadfort, Arya and her direwolf quickly become embroiled in the battle to reclaim the North. This story follows the events of ADWD, and may contain #SPOILERS#</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Arya and the Dreadfort

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place just after the events of A DANCE WITH DRAGONS. Having completed her training on Braavos, Arya has returned to Westeros to avenge the deaths of her family. Prior to the beginning of this story, she is reunited with her direwolf Nymeria at the Trident (while searching for Sansa), before taking a ship north to confront the Lord of the Dreadfort.
> 
> While some disbeliefs might have to be suspended, this fanfic is meant to exist within the same reality as the books. It will therefore contain spoilers for all published material. Enjoy! :)

**Arya and the Dreadfort**

The winter sun rose to the crackle of flames, and the smell of burning oak. A great river of smoke poured out from the mouth of the Dreadfort. Its towers twisted and writhed in the heat, and its outer walls blackened with soot. Even from the forest Arya could taste the salt of the black-stone, and smell the cooked flesh... _or maybe that was Nymeria's nose.  
_

Arya now had trouble telling her own senses from the direwolf’s. They had bonded so violently in the bowels of the Dreadfort that even in her own skin, Arya could taste, and smell, and feel as a wolf does. And sometimes she could feel Nymeria peering through her own eyes; like part of her soul had been left in the wolf. It was frightening. She had felt as if something was missing once she regained consciousness in the Dreadfort dungeon, after killing Ramsay. _After eating Ramsay,_ she thought, feeling sick again.

Nymeria had managed to rouse her, just as her wolves had begun chewing on the chained man’s legs. She had called them off before they broke his skin, but the man was still shaking with fear. He had called himself Mance Rayder, and claimed to be a friend of her half-brother Jon.  She had unchained him cautiously, and he had helped her unlock the rest of the doors in the dungeon. Many of the prisoners were too weak or ill to leave their cells. Some had begged her to leave before Ramsay returned. Even when she showed them his half eaten corpse they would not believe he was dead. Others simply begged for their suffering to end, and Arya gave them the gift of mercy. Many were terrified by the sight of the wolves, but Arya promised they would not be harmed, and the wolves kept their distance. Those who wanted to leave were escorted by Mance and herself, up the dungeon stairs. They found the dining hall empty, and Arya wondered what had become of the starving women, and their poor babes. They took what little food and provisions they could find, piled the corpses of the dead soldiers in the middle of the castle yard, and set the Dreadfort to the torch.

They stood now, at the edge of the forest, watching the Dreadfort crumble into ruins, as grey clouds rolled over the Northern sky. They were forty in all: Arya and Nymeria, a dozen wolves; and the sixteen women and nine men (including Mance) that they had rescued from the dungeons. Plus a little girl named June, who they’d found hiding in the kitchen pantry upstairs.  Arya looked back and forth over her new pack, as soft snowflakes filtered through the leaves above; dappled light dancing across their frightened faces. The keep let out a long moan, as the eastern tower finally crumbled into ash. _Four hundred years,_ Arya thought. _I did what an army of Northmen couldn’t. I broke the Dreadfort, just like they’d broken Winterfell._

“Roose will not be able to ignore this,” Arya thought aloud, stroking Nymeria.

“No,” replied Mance. “His sole heir is slain, and his seat is ruined. Even that plump little Frey wife of his has absconded; off to the Twins to bury her grandfather, and squabble over the line of succession. It seems Roose’s reign is crumbling before it had even begun, and now with Stannis marching a fresh army on Winterfell…” Mance trailed off as the Dreadfort let out another moan. One of the women spat into the snow.

“His wrath will be terrible. He’ll have to return east… and then he’s mine.”

“I’m afraid it may not be so easy as that, little Arya.” Mance said softly. “Roose is not his son. Where Ramsay was vicious, Roose is cautious. Cautious and cunning. And with the Dreadfort in ruins he has even less reason to leave the safety of Winterfell. We should return to the Wall. Lord Snow will be able to help you, or else keep you safe.”

 _Jon,_ she though. _Lord Snow._ What she wouldn’t give to see him again; for him to hug her and muss up her hair, and tell her she’s safe. But she was no longer some little highborn girl to be pampered and protected. She was the wolf bitch of the Trident. She had trained under the Faceless assassins and the First Swords of Braavos. Her hands had spilt more blood than most knights. And now she had stormed the Dreadfort… and tasted the flesh of men. She looked up at Mance Rayder, and saw him for the first time. For a wildling warlord, he was surprisingly plain. Not particularly handsome, or even big, but there was a certain cunning in the man; that was clear. Ramsay had not broken him.

“What do you mean ‘our’? Who said I was taking you with me?” She replied. Mance laughed.

“You certainly have your brother’s stubbornness. And no one could mistake you for a helpless maid, but my lady, winter is upon us. We must seek refuge from the coming storm, and the North is a hostile place for a Stark these days. The Night’s Watch is sworn to stay out of the affairs of the realm. They will take you in. There are wildlings being settled in the Gift, who could help the prisoners.” _Wildlings being given passage into the Seven Kingdoms? What is Jon planning up there?_ Arya turned to the survivors of the Dreadfort.

“My name is Arya Stark,” she said, trying to sound brave. “I am the rightful heir to Winterfell, and I intend to retake it from the false Warden Roose Bolton…” she paused, “…when the time is right. I fear all I have to offer you now is my sword.” She drew Titan. “You may come with me, or you may return to your homes and villages; what remains of them. Whatever you decide, you cannot stay here.” She looked up at Mance. “I make for Castle Black, at the Wall. What say you?” The gaggle of prisoners looked at her, wide-eyed. Some of the men looked away. She could see their hands shivering beneath their coats; those that had hands. They were a sorry lot. The little one, June, was the first to speak.

“I have no… no place to go. My mother was a serving maid for the Bolton’s, but Lord Ramsay… he… he…” She sobbed, and Arya wanted to hug her. “I’ll come with you Lady Stark,” she offered a small curtsy. “I can’t use no sword, but I can fish with a spear. And… and sew…” she trailed off, shivering. One of the women spoke next.

“My father was a fisherman sworn to the Dreadfort… but one month my father couldn’t afford his taxes… and so… Roose took me in payment. You saved my life Lady Arya. You saved all of us. I will help you if I can.”

“Most of our villages are deserted or destroyed,” an older man said. “During winter smallfolk would travel south, or take refuge in their lord’s castle. It was better before Ramsay came to the Dreadfort. Roose was not so bad, but Ramsay…”

“Roose was cunt, just like his bastard,” a boy spat. “He was just more crafty about it. I’m with you Lady Arya. You and your wolves, that is.” Arya eyed Mance. “I’ve always wanted to see the Wall.”

“Alright,” she said. “Then let’s get going. We’ll move north through the forest. We need to cover as much ground as possible before dark. The wolves will keep us safe from other beasts. We should reach the Kingsroad in three days if the weather is kind.” She sheathed Titan and climbed up on to her white destrier, Snowball. “C’mon,” she kicked the horse into a canter. Nymeria chased after her, followed by the wolves, and then finally the villagers.

They had found ten horses in the Dreadfort stables. She had given the strongest to Mance, but he had offered to walk instead. Most were mounted by women, with one given to the old man, and June riding double. They moved beneath the trees at a brisk pace. They needed to take advantage of the light snow. Arya and Nymeria rode side by side at the front of the column while her wolves spread out beneath the trees, around them. Mance stayed at the rear to make sure no one fell behind. Arya still wasn’t sure he could trust him. _Why would Jon send a wildling to rescue her?_ But he had proven himself an honourable man thus far. Arya found her heart racing at the thought of seeing her brother again. She kept checking behind her for Bolton men, but so far they were alone. And Nymeria would sense danger long before Arya could see it. Turning again, she watched the last puff of the Dreadfort fade behind a hill. _Soon Roose… soon you will pay for what you did to Robb and… and_ … she felt tears emerge as the image of her mother’s corpse on the riverbank flickered into view. She shook them off and scowled. _Soon…_

*  *  *

By sunset they had travelled about half as far as Arya had hoped. But there was no use continuing. The women could barely stay awake on their horses, and two of the men had fainted from exhaustion. They made a small fire deep in the woods. Nymeria returned to the camp with a deer sloped over her shoulder. Mance skinned the beast, skewered it, and roasted it over the flames. The wolves moaned in envy as the sizzling juices filled the cold air, but Nymeria kept them at bay. The meat was dry and stringy, but Arya found some sea salt and lime in their supplies, which gave it some flavour. To hear the villagers tell it, however, they had just eaten a meal from the King’s own table. Soon enough, the colour had returned to their faces, and they began to talk and smile and laugh at each other’s stories. Arya gave the bones to Nymeria and thanked her with a kiss. The direwolf licked her face, and for a moment she felt whole again.

Arya awoke the next morning to falling snow. Even so, her little pack was in high spirits. Little June handed her a yellow blossom she had found by a lake, bowing low. Arya mussed up her hair and told her it might be the last flower of winter. In truth she wasn’t much fond of flowers, but the thought reminded her of Sansa, and so she kept it. They arrived at the north end of the forest by late afternoon.

“We’ll stop and make camp here,” she announced. “The snow doesn’t look like it’s going to let up anytime soon, so this might be our last chance for decent shelter. There was no deer that evening, but one of the wolves found rabbits, so Mance boiled it up in a pot he’d taken from the Dreadfort, mixing in some herbs, peppers, and some ground acorn he’d found nearby. Again, Arya didn’t much care for the taste, but it was a hot meal and the villagers seemed happy.

The third day was much tougher. By then the snow was falling thick and fast. The wind whipped and howled, and without the trees for cover they soon resembled a party of snowmen; pale as ghosts, with frost sticking to their hair and brows. As the snow rose to their ankles, and then knees, the laughter and cheer of the forest faded. Soon they moved in silence across an endless wasteland of white crystal. There was little sign of life out here. June spotted a fox, but it was gone before Arya could draw an arrow. They rested more and more, digging camps into the walls of valleys. They ate stale bread and salted beef. There was little game for the wolves, and Arya noticed them dropping off one by one. Nymeria caught a ferrel badger on the fifth night, but they were unable to light a fire to cook it. In the end she let the direwolf have it all to herself.

On the seventh day of their journey, the first horse died. It just collapsed with a horrible yelp, and was dead by the time Arya reached it. It was the horse June had doubled on, and she could not stop crying. Mance said a little prayer for the brave beast, before stripping its skin, and fashioning a crude coat for one of the women. He cooked the horse meat over a meagre flame. Burnt on the outside and bloody on the inside, it tasted awful. But they all ate it; all but June. It was good to have warm meat inside them again.

The last wolf abandoned them on the tenth day, and then there was just Nymeria to protect them. Arya found herself slipping into the direwolf’s skin more and more, if only for the warmth. She would dash out into the fog; in search of food, or buildings, or people, or anything. But the smells had faded from the world, and there was only the cold, empty abyss of winter. The first tree they found Arya fell to her knees and prayed. She prayed for the Old Gods to end this wicked storm; for an end to their hunger, and fear, and sorrow; an end to the dark thoughts that had entered her mind. She prayed harder than she had ever prayed before, and she thought of Bran and her time in the Dreadfort. _I heard him,_ she thought. _He spoke to me in the dungeon. He must still be alive. He must be!_ She felt Nymeria breathing next to her, and Arya opened her eyes. June was on her knees as well, along with half of the survivors. _The Old Gods have power in the North, my lady,_ she remembered Old Nan telling her. _Treat them well and they will protect you._

*   *   *

The next day they finally found the Kingsroad. “The storm seems to be letting up,” Mance remarked, glancing at the sky. “At last... Maybe the Old Gods _were_ listening.”

“I thought we were done for after the horses started to die off,” Arya replied, shivering. “We’ve still got a long journey ahead of us though. But we should at least be able to find shelter.”

“And our hardy villagers live on,” Mance laughed warmly.

“Half alive, at least,” said the old man, offering a faint smile.

“I’m sorry about your, wolves,” June squeaked.

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Arya lied. “As long as we have Nymeria, we’ll be safe. If I recall, there should be an inn two days ride from here. We’ll sleep on soft feather beds soon enough, under a dozen blankets. We’ll feast on roast lamp and crackling, drink a mug of ale and tell the patrons of our adventures.” She squeezed June’s shoulder and forced herself to smile. “How does that sound, hmm?” June smiled meekly, but Arya could see she was trembling from the cold. _I must keep her warm, or she will die._

“We may even be able to send a raven off to Castle Black,” said Mance, feeding his horse a handful of oats.

That night that they slept in shrubbed ditch, half a mile off the main road. They boiled up the last of their oats and sugar. The bread was all frozen and mouldy so they gave it to the horses. Once again, Arya saw smiles return to the faces of the villagers. They dreamed of the inn, and boasted about how many mugs of ale they would down. Arya’s thoughts drifted, and before long she was fast asleep.

She was running now, across the white frost. The stink of squirrel had struck her nose, and now she was racing after it. Her paws hammered the cold earth, as crystal sprayed against her eyes. A flash of red darted left, but she swerved after it. The smell of fear and flesh pulsed through her body, and drool began to slide down her fur. It had been so long since she had tasted meat and her stomach ached. Her little cousins had all left, and she was forced to share her kills. But the squirrel was all hers. A thick black tree rose quickly before her, and she slashed her way up, striking the little beast right across the throat. Hot blood filled the air, dribbling out across the snow. Nymeria tore into her kill, its little chest still heaving. The moist meat ran down her chin in sloppy chunks. It was stringy, but the chase had mad it red hot; and it tasted so good after so long. Nymeria sucked the last few morsels of meat from bone and began to pad back to her people. The dying embers of their nest flickered in the distance. Suddenly she froze, lowering her nose to the ground. _Men, big men_ ; eight or nine lumbering up the road. They were loud and brutish, and Nymeria’s fur began to bristle.

Arya sat up with a jolt, sweat pouring down her face. “Mance,” she whispering, shaking. “Mance,” a little louder. Mance stirred from beneath his cloak. He emerged wearily, rubbing his eyes. “Mance, there are men; men coming up the Kingsroad.” She slipped back into Nymeria’s skin. “Nine of them; all on horseback.” Mance drew his sword and peered over the edge of the ditch. He turned back with a look of horror.

“The embers! Cover them quickly… oh no…” he crouched lower. “I think they’ve spotted us.” Arya drew her sword, and began to rouse the villagers.

“We’ll ride out and meet them. They might just think it’s the two of us.” She grabbed June by the collar. “If something goes wrong get out of here as fast as you can. Ride two to a horse if you have to. The Inn of the Laughing Tree is just a day or so North. You can make it.”

“No…” June whimpered.

“Yes,” ordered Arya, mounting Snowball. She kicked him forward, before June could say another word. Mance galloped up to her side. She could see the men, already trotting towards them. She felt Nymeria approaching cautiously from the far side of the Kingsroad.

As the men drew closer, Arya saw that they well armoured and helmed, mounted on nine enormous stallions, with long-swords, bows and axes fastened to their sides. Their shields and mail bore a strange sigil that Arya did not recognise. It was a yellow ring of flame, around the head of a fox. _No, not a fox, a stag…. Baratheon._

“Well met, Sers,” called Mance, moving his horse ahead of Arya’s. “A fine night for a ride through the snow.”

“That’s close enough, wildling. What are you and your brat doing so far south? You know you’re not allowed to leave the Gift.”

“We ought to hang you right here,” grunted another.

“You wrong us,” Mance replied, halting. “We are friends of your lord, Stannis,” Arya noticed his hand move to his sword belt, “and the Night’s Watch. Are you survivors from the Battle at Winterfell?” The men did not reply for a moment. Arya could feel Nymeria creeping closer.

“We were never at Winterfell,” one of the men answered at last. “The king ordered us to stay at the Wall with his wife, but—”

“What do you know of Winterfell?” breathed the leader, edging forward. Arya didn’t like his tone.

“We were at Winterfell,” Mance answered, “when Stannis launched his first assault; prisoners of Lord Bolton. We escaped and were on our way back north, to the Wall.” _The best lies are always seasoned with a little truth_ , she remembered the Kindly Man tell her once.

“Prisoners,” the leader snorted, drawing his sword, “or spies.” Mance wheeled in front of Arya, unsheathing his blade in kind. Sensing danger, Nymeria broke into a run.

“No don’t,” Arya blurted out. “Don’t hurt him, ser. It’s not what you think.” A grey shadow ripped the knight right from his saddle, wrestling him into the snow with a gulp of blood. A chorus of steel rang out as the other knights quickly fanned out around them. One of them swung his axe at Mance, but the wilding ducked it, heaving his sword up through the man’s armpit. He cried out, toppling into the snow. Two more advanced, as Nymeria tore at the screaming knight below. Without a second thought, Arya kicked Snowball into a sprint. She wrenched Titan out of its scabbard, just in time to meet the man’s blow. She grabbed the tip of her sword, and punched the knight with the hilt of her sword. He cursed, swinging back wildly. Mance swung again, hacking deep into the man’s shoulder with a rush of blood.

Arya cried out, but it was too late. One of the knight’s drew his axe hard across the head of Mance’s horse, toppling them both with a blood-curdling scream. Arya swerved, positioning herself between Mance and the men. She had mastered swordcraft on Braavos, and could go toe to toe against any knight, but she had no talent for horseback fighting. Nymeria padded to hear side, her snout stained with blood. She made a ferocious noise. Two of the stallions nayed, backing away nervously, but the other four did not flinch.

Arya kicked Snowball towards the rider on the right. “Winterfell,” she shouted, sword outstretched. Their swords clanged violently as they passed. She wheeled around to make another charge, just in time to see Nymeria tackle a second knight from his horse. “Winterfell,” she charged again, the sounds of anguished screams rattling against her helm. This knight had an axe and she knew she would not be able to counter it. Instead, she swerved the destrier left at the last second, slamming Titan hard across the man’s gut. The impact wrenched them both into the snow. Dizzy, she wrestled with the man, clutching for Titan, but it had landed out of reach. Scrambling onto the man’s chest, she drew a knife from her ankle and drove it savagely through the slit in his helm. Blood splashed into her eyes with a shriek.

She thought she heard Mance yell, “look out,” but all of a sudden she was face down in the snow with the taste of blood and sick squirming through her gums. A song of steel erupted around her. The sounds of screams and curses, and baying horses echoed through her helm. Her mind began to race into shadow, as the vision of a little girl, face down in the snow flashed across her eyes. _June_ , she thought. _Get up June, get up and run._ But the little girl was her. She was seeing what Nymeria saw. The direwolf let out another roar, and the taste of human blood pulsed through her again. _Get up, she told herself. Get up and fight, Arya of House Stark._ She pushed herself up with a groan, and snatched Titan from the snow. The world spun, but she could make out two men fighting beneath a pale moon. The man in armour was hammering at his opponents shield, cursing the Gods.

“Stannis should ‘av burned you bloody savages, when… when he ‘ad the chance,” Arya could see he was crying and out of breath. “Shoulda had us a wildling bonfire for the Red God to see. Maybe then… Maybe… AHH!” Mance drove his blade right through a chink in the knight’s ribs, twisting it through to the other side. The skewered man collapsed to his knees.

“That’s right boy, get on your haunches where a kneeler belongs.” Mance spat. He wrenched the sword out, and cut the man’s head clean off, with a grunt.

“Arya,” he cried, looking up. “Are you okay?”

“Your neck,” she gasped. “It’s bleeding.”

“Just a flesh wound,” he laughed, but already there was a pool of black ice seeping around his feet. “I’ve had worse… from better.” He spat again. His voice was low, and raspy. Arya grabbed a cloth from Snowball’s harness and pressed it tight against Mance’s bloody neck.

“Is that all of them?” she asked, as he grabbed hold of Snowball for support.

“Two of ‘em fled,” he replied, gesturing towards the Kingsroad, “Once that beast of yours bared her pearly whites.” Nymeria was munching greedily on what looked like a man’s leg. “Won’t they have a story to tell.”

“Please,” squeaked a voice. “Please no. Keep it away.” Something had drawn Nymeria’s gaze. “Please, it wasn’t me. It was Agus. I didn’t want to stop.”

“Nymeria,” Arya said, approaching the begging knight. “To me.” One of the men had been pinned down by his dead horse. His helmet was cracked and bloodied, but he was otherwise intact.

“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t gut you where you lay,” Mance said, staggering forward, one hand on his sword, the other pressed against his throat.

“You’re her, aren’t you?” he said to Arya, ignoring Mance’s threat. “You’re the girl they’re looking for. The Bolton bride.”

“Ramsay Bolton is dead,” she replied darkly. “I slew him myself.” She drew the point of Titan along his shivering throat. The man looked shocked. “You said you were at the Wall when Stannis attacked Winterfell. Why?”

“We were ordered to stay and look after the Queen Selyse; and to assist Lord Snow in restoring the Nightfort.”

“Then why are you riding south?” Mance probed. “Are you traitors, or just cravens?”

“Cravens? No… well, perhaps… But we had no choice. They were threatened to kill the Lady Melisandre.”

“Who?” Mance cried.

“Our priestess,” the man wept. “Our voice to the Lord of Light.”

“No, I mean who drove you from the castle?”

“The Night’s Watch. There was… there was a mutiny.” _No_ , Arya though. The hair on the back of her neck began to bristle. “Lord Snow was going to lead an army of wildlings to Winterfell, to rescue his sister.” _No. Jon, no._ Tears stung her eyes. “His brothers; they stabbed him. Bowen Marsh and the others. They stabbed him!”

“No!” Arya roared. “You’re lying!”

“I’m not,” he pleaded. “There was an uprising. They killed the Lord Commander and seized control of Castle Black. Anyone who fought back was killed or locked in the ice cells. They had already imprisoned Lady Melisandre. They took the Queen as well; even the little princess Shireen. Her fool Patchface slew four Brothers trying to protect here… before they took his head. We had no choice!” he was sobbing now. “We were outnumbered and they had our Queen! We were riding south to regroup with Stannis’ men.” Arya fell to her knees. _No, not Jon as well. How could the Gods by so cruel?_

“What of…” Mance grasped for words. “What of the other castles. What of the Shadow Tower? What of East Watch?”

“Castle Black has lost all communication with Cotter Pyke. Last we knew he was sailing north of the Wall, to investigate some wildling township. Denys Mallister has sworn vengeance, but most of the Wall’s strength is housed in Castle Black, and they have already voted Bowen Marsh as the new Lord Commander of the Wall.

“Tormund…” Mance breathed. “He must have…” he trailed off.

“The Giantsbane fled south to the Gift. Most of the wildlings went with him, while the mutiny was occurring.” The knight let out a moan. “Please… it hurts…” Mance sheathed his sword and knelt. He grasped the rump of the stallion, and heaved. The knight wriggled out with a groan.

“I’m sorry,” he said, struggling to his feet. “I never spoke to your brother, but he seemed a decent boy; a decent man.”

“Will you make for Stannis?” Mance asked.

“King Stannis is dead,” the knight sighed. “If Ramsay Bolton can be trusted; which he can’t. At the very least his host will be wandering a few days ride south. If we can regroup in the Wolfswood, maybe we’ll have a chance. Who knows?” He hoisted himself up onto one of the other stallions. He removed his cracked helmet and threw it to the ground. Veins of dry blood streaked his face. “I wish you luck, Arya of House Stark. Good luck and fair weather.” His expression was mournful. He kicked the horse into gear and galloped away.

“Jon’s dead,” Arya said, as they watched the knight disappear along the Kingsroad. Saying the words did not make it any less painful. “Stannis too; and Roose Bolton sits on my father’s throne, sharpening his blade.” She spat. Her grief had transformed into a blinding rage.

“South, there is only bloodshed. We cannot hope to breach the castle by ourselves. But north may still hold some hope. The wildlings are gathering in the Gift. I was once King-Beyond-the-Wall. I may be able to rally them to our cause. If they wed their strength to the Shadow Tower, we may…” He sighed, shaking his head.

“We may be able to retake the Wall,” Arya finished, stroking Titan. _What about Ghost?_ She’d forgotten to ask the knight about Jon’s direwolf.


	2. Arya meets the Wildlings

**Arya meets the Wildlings**

They waited at the inn for six days, but neither June nor any of the other Dreadfort survivors showed up. After their skirmish on the Kingsroad, Arya had assumed they would join back up within the hour; but a day passed, and then another. They arrived at the Inn of the Laughing Tree to find it almost deserted. A few patrons looked up from their ale as they entered, but none of the rooms were occupied. At first Arya had feared they might have been turned away for lack of coin, but the innkeeper swore that only a few local drunks had frequented since the beginning of winter. Arya’s last stag bought them a room each, two boiled chickens and a flagon of sour wine. Arya and Nymeria wolfed down their meals, but Mance could barely stomach a bite. His neck had festered horribly over the past two days of travel. The innkeep’s wife rinsed the wound out with some boiled wine, and dressed it in fresh linen. He had shivered so violently through their first night that Arya was sure he was going to die, but the following day brought him back to health; and after some hot soup and sour dough, he was in high spirits again.

While Mance rested, Arya practiced her needlework in the yard. Nymeria had been forced to stay in the stables during the first night, but she had spooked the horses so much that she had been allowed to sleep in Arya’s room for the remainder of their stay. Every night as she slept, Arya felt the direwolf exploring further and further out into the winter wastes. This North was a very different place from the Trident, where Nymeria had spent most of her life. By the third day, Arya’s tab had expired, and they were forced to sell one of the two stallion’s they’d claimed from Stannis’ fallen knights. She knew they could not afford to sell the other horse, or Snowball would be their only means of reaching the Wall. Loyal as he was, he would not make the journey riding double.

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Mance said, as they prepared to leave. “It won’t be like our journey from the Dreadfort. This is the Kingsroad. There are townships and castles dotted all along the country side. They probably waltzed right past us in the night. I bet you they’re at Last Hearth, sitting by an open fire, worrying the same thing about us.” Arya knew he was just trying to make her feel better, but it did not help. “June is tough little girl,” he squeezed her shoulder. “Like you.” She scowled.

Arya used the last of her tab to by some salted pork, a sack of oats and a new map. Snowball had mistaken her old map for a grain. She also bought a shield off the local black smith. Arya had never had much use for shields. Somehow she had always considered them a form of cheating, though her Swordmaster had never stated as much. But after the battle on the Kingsroad, she realised that she was vulnerable on horseback. The shield was only wooden, with a lead filling, but it was light, and would stop at least a few blows intended for her person.

“How far is it to the Gift?” she asked the innkeeper, as he rolled up her new map.

“Along the Kingsroad? At least fourteen days, and that’s only if the weather holds. If we see another storm like the one from last week, we could find you and your friend buried by Last River, the next time we fetch a pale of water.” He grinned, handing her the parchment. “Begging your pardon, my lady.” Arya wasn’t sure why the man kept addressing her as “my lady”. She certainly didn’t look highborn, with her matted hair and grazed skin. Perhaps he was mocking her… or perhaps not. She couldn’t recall ever seeing the man before. Maybe he had visited Winterfell when she was younger. Either way, he had been a friend to her, and she would not forget it when she reclaimed her father’s seat. “The journey would probably be quicker if you cut through the western hills, though don’t be surprised if the mountain clans are a little less than welcoming.”

“Is there any news of Winterfell?” Mance asked, mounting his horse with a groan. “Any news from the Wall?”

“Winterfell? Oh, plenty of news; none of it consistent. Some say Stannis is dead, and his men are being hunted down like dogs through the Wolfswood. Others claim Roose was betrayed by Wyman Wanderly, who has proclaimed himself the new Lord of Winterfell.” He gave Nymeria a sly glance. “Some even say that House Stark has risen from the dead, and is leading an army of wolves against the false lords of the North. The Wall, on the other hand, remains deafening silent. We know Lord Snow was allowing wildlings to enter the realm.” He eyed Mance suspiciously. “But other than that…”

“Winter is coming,” Arya said. “You won’t be able to stay here much longer. You and your wife should make for Last Hearth by the end of the month.”

“We’ve seen our fair share of winters, my lady.”

“Not like this one, you haven’t,” Arya said, kicking Snowball into gear. She and Mance galloped until the Inn of the Laughing Tree was a puff of smoke in the distance.

For a time they said nothing, and only the beating of hooves against the icy mud could be heard. Eventually, Arya broke the silence. “Is it true what he said about Winterfell? Is Stannis dead?”

“He was right about there being a battle. I was there when it happened, although I never actually saw it. The battle was beyond the walls of Winterfell, during a furious blizzard. I wrote a song about it, called ‘the Battle of the Red Snows’, and the men seemed to like it. Instead of staying in the castle where it was safe, Roose sent a host to attack Stannis in the woods. It didn’t make much sense. He may have been trying to smash the enemy’s siege weapons, before they could be finished. Or he may have been trying to cull some men; men he didn’t like or didn’t trust. I think he was just trying to expel some of the hungry mouths. Winter changes the way people think. Food and warmth suddenly become more important to you than winning a hundred battles.” He shrugged. “Stannis certainly didn’t capture Winterfell, but he inflicted heavy casualties on the Bolton’s. Then, after news of Lord Walder’s death, all of Roose’s Frey bannermen up and left. I can’t imagine he has more than five-hundred men left at Winterfell, and most of them are Lord Manderly’s. If Manderly turns on Roose as well…” he stroked his chin hairs, considering for a moment. “If Stannis was killed, then it happened after Ramsay and I had left for the Dreadfort. Who knows what’s happened since then?”

“If Stannis takes Winterfell, then what does that mean for us?”

“Well, Stannis wants the Iron Throne, and to get the Iron Throne he needs the North, and to get the North he needs the Stark’s. Roose may have the Lannister’s blessing, but the only reason the Northmen haven’t risen up against him is that he has Winterfell, and his son is married to Eddard’s daughter. If Stannis takes Winterfell, then you need only reveal yourself as the true Arya Stark, and the North will turn against House Bolton.”

“That’s a pretty big ‘if’.”

“Stannis offered to legitimise your brother, but Jon refused to break his vowels. You may be his only chance to win over the North. Stannis needs you Arya.”

“And all I ask for is Roose Bolton’s head.” _Arya Stark sends her regards._ “Just like they took my father’s.” Mance turned to look at her. There was an odd sadness in his eyes. “I was there, you know; the day it happened. It didn’t see it. Yoren covered my eyes. But I heard the sword, and his head hit the galley. I heard my sister screaming…” _Why am I telling him this?_ “I had to flee the city. They were going to kill me. I had to! I thought Sansa would be safe as long as they had the Kingslayer.” She wiped her tears away angrily. “I should have killed him when I had the chance. It would have been so easy. I could have poisoned his wine, or cut his throat while he slept. I could have made him a nice batch of ‘weasel soup’. I could have shoved those leeches right down his mouth. I could have stopped it.” The tears were streaming down her face now. The memories came flooding back, and she looked away. “I was so close to seeing them again. I could hear them through the doors of the castle. I could hear them screaming. I could hear Grey Wind howling in pain. I tried to save them… but I was too weak… Just a frightened little girl…”

“It’s not your fault Arya. You couldn’t have saved them.” She sniffed, wiping her face. _Just a stupid little mouse._ Their journey fell back into silence. That night she wept as she fell asleep. Nymeria whimpered beside her; trying to comfort her. Mance watched helplessly as the pale moon glistened across her wet cheeks. He saw the scared little child still inside Arya Stark.

*  *  *

The hours disappeared into days, as they trekked along the Kingsroad. They ate as they rode, and sometimes napped on horseback. They made camp each night, in caves and ditches; under trees and beside lakes. They slept little and spoke less, usually setting off before the sun rose each morning. The weather was kind, and the journey almost pleasant, were it not for the shadowy horizon they ventured towards. They often rode in silence, each deep in their own thoughts. Memories of the Sept of Balor, and the Red Wedding dogged Arya’s dreams. _Why did I bring those up again? Why?_ She thought the sight of Ramsay’s dead body would bring her some peace, but it had only made her sick. Her thoughts became darker and more frightening. She would sometimes fantasise about killing Joffrey, or the Mountain, or Walder Frey, but it only made the old wounds sting. They were dead, and she was alive. That ought to be revenge enough, but it wasn’t. _Killing cannot undo killing_ , she thought. She couldn’t undo Jon’s death either, but she could try and save the Wall. She could try and take back Winterfell. She could find Sansa, or Ghost, if they were still alive. Maybe that would get rid of the dreams.

It wasn’t until they reached the western hills, that they met their first person in over a week. A tall, thin man approached them from behind a jagged rock. He was long of hair and long of beard, but he couldn’t have been more than twenty. He carried a bow, but no sword, and his feet were bare and dirty.

“Halt,” he called, his voice sounding much younger than he probably meant it. “This is the land of the Free Folk. If you wish to enter, you must first relink… er… you must give up your swords and horses. These are the words of Tormund Giantsbane, King of the Free Folk.” When they didn’t answer, the man lowered himself behind the rock again, and tried to draw an arrow to his string.

“It goes the other way round, you lackwit,” Mance chuckled. “Kings seem to be sprouting up like weeds, these days. Who is this Tormund Kittensbane, that I must kneel so low?”

“Not kneel,” said the boy defensively, still struggling with the arrow. “We are not kneelers; we are Free Folk, from… from beyond the Wall.”

“It seems to me that you are a long way from home, unless King’s Landing is now buried somewhere in the Frostfangs.”

“The crows opened the gates for us. We had to kneel once, and give over our things, but after that we were free again. The crows gave us the Gift… to make our own kingdom.”

“I know where the Gift is, boy, and you are still too far south to call this ‘your lands’.”

“It weren’t our fault,” the man insisted, letting his bow drop to the ground in defeat. “It were the crows! They were attacking each other. They killed the head crow, and then started feeding on each other. Tormund brought us here instead, to make our own kingdom again. The mountain clans have joined us as well. ‘It’s safer in the mountain’, he said. ‘We can defend ourselves better’.”

“A realm of wildlings and mountain men, led by a self-proclaimed bear-fucker. What a motley kingdom indeed.” Mance hooted. “Tell me, what is your name, oh great defender of the Free Folk?”

“I am Erik, son of Derrin, who was killed at the second assault on the Wall.”

“Derrin, aye. I knew your father, a little. I buried him beside Goron Thunderspear, in the Haunted Forest. He was a brave man.” The man’s confusion slowly transformed into astonishment.

“Who… who are you?”

“Well, down here I’m just another kneeler, but I was once called the King-Beyond-the-Wall.”

The scout, Erik, lead Arya and Mance through the jagged maze of rock and dry roots that made up the western hills. The further they went, the bigger the stone walls became, until they were suddenly surrounded by a sea of mountaintops, powdered with fresh snow. The North stretched out before them enormous, and through the clear winter air, Arya could finally make out the Wall. It gleamed like a thin layer of ice joining grey sky to white earth, but Arya knew it was one of the largest structures in Westeros, perhaps the world. _The shield that guards the realms of men,_ Jon had recited to her once.

Erik explained to Mance what had transpired on the Wall since he left for Winterfell; about how Ramsay Bolton had threatened the Night’s Watch and how Jon had mustered a host of wildling to retaliate, before being stabbed by his own men. The mutineers went after Stannis’ men first, giving Tormund and the wildlings time to make their escape. Tormund released a giant being housed by the Night’s Watch, who carried Jon’s body to an unmarked grave by the Nightfort. They then fled south, to regroup with the other wildlings at the Gift. Fearing further retribution from the Night’s Watch, Tormund forged a treaty with the mountain clans, who were themselves allied with Stannis. After listening to Ramsay’s letter, Tormund had realised Mance was still alive. Apparently five separate search parties had been launched from the hills to retrieve Mance and herself, but so far, none had returned. They had feared the worst, but finally news of their survival reached the wildlings, via a small band of frightened villagers.

“June!” Arya, had cried. “They’re alive?”

“Aye, my lady,” Erik nodded. “They stumbled in from the night, quite hungry and afraid, but they are safe now. They told us of your deeds at the Dreadfort. I’d only half believed them myself, until I saw that enormous wolf of yours. Just like Lord Snow,” he said, shaking his head in awe.

Arya and Nymeria trotted along behind the two wildlings, as they journeyed further and further into the mountains. She was not quite sure of what to make of these wildlings from beyond the Wall. Old Nan had always described them as savages and slayers. But Mance had proved himself an honourable man, and this Erik seemed more frightened than fierce. Jon had trusted them, and Nymeria did not growl as she did in the presence of Bolton or Baratheon men. Perhaps they were not so very different from her own kin. They both worshipped the Old Gods, after all.

Night had fallen by the time they reached the wildling stronghold. _Freehold_ , Erik had called it, though its true name was _Hurrik’s Perch_. It was a lime-stone fortress built high into the edge of a cliff, facing east. It was once the seat of a great mountain lord, but his house had fallen into decay thousands of years ago, and only ruins remained of its former power. Instead, the mountain clans had wrought a much smaller hall at its centre, and planted many weirwood trees around it, to imbue wisdom on the men who treated there. Erik explained that it acted as sort of meeting place for the clan chief’s. It was considered sacred land, and that any blood spilt within its walls would be an affront to the Old Gods. Tormund had struck a deal with the clan chiefs, allowing the wildlings to use the hall, and surrounding ruins, as lodgings, as long as the peace was kept. So far, it had.

As Arya and Mance made their way up the cliff, many faces began appearing from the rocks and caves to greet them. They were tall, hairy, gangly things; poorly armoured, with crude wooden sticks where swords should be. She was, however, pleased to note the women were allowed to bear weapons, alongside the men. Some watched her direwolf with open mouths, while others raised their spears to Mance, and nodded sternly. None bowed, of course; for wildlings did not bow nor quake before power. They followed strength, not titles, Arya knew that much. A huge, shaggy man burst from the hall, shaking his fists and laughing.

“Mance Rayder! Back from the dead!” he bellowed. “Well bugger me with a rusted pike.” Mance smiled and swung down off his horse. “Gods, what happened to your neck!”

“Your grace,” Mance said, giving the man a mocking bow. The two men embraced, and the wildlings on the cliff gave a great cheer, and stamped the butts of their wooden spears against rock. Mance turned to Arya, and smiled. “Allow me to introduce Arya Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and her wolf Nymeria.”

“Well, bugger me bloody,” the man replied, scratching his tangled grey beard. “Have you Stark’s ever thought to take a hound as your pet, rather than these shaggy great beasts?” Arya eyed him closely, not moving from her horse.

“Arya Stark,” Mance interjected, “This is Tormund Giantsbane; Tall-talker, Horn-blower and Breaker of Ice, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of—”

“Lady Arya!” cried a voice from behind her. Arya turned to find little June bolting up the ridge. She swung down from her saddle and let the girl fall into her arms. As they hugged, she could feel June shuddering against her chest.

*   *   *

June sat by Arya’s side in the great stone hall of Hurrik’s Perch. Wildling lords and mountain clan chiefs huddled together, arguing and cursing in groups of three or four. Mance Rayder sat to Arya’s left, with Tormund Giantsbane beside him. Nymeria lay on her belly gnawing at a leg of mutton. The host of weirwood trees rustled gently in the chilly breeze, as lantern light threw a maze of shadowy figures across the castle walls. The council of the wildlings and mountain men had begun cordially enough, but quickly descended into bickering and accusations, as old tribal feuds filtered into their discussion, and the difference in custom between Free Folk and kneeler became forcefully obvious. It was a Thenn who threw the first punch, though against his own brother. Mance had them both escorted from the hall swiftly, lest their folly inflame the Old Gods. Though the wildlings clearly represented the greater number (with most of the mountain men marching south with Stannis), only Tormund and Mance were given a voice at the meeting. Instead, dozens of wildlings crowded against the outer walls of the ruins, and then hundreds more outside on the ridge. The rest of the clan chief’s fought over seating arrangements and titles. Even small lords, with only a handful of men sworn to their service, demanded a place at the council. Arya was growing impatient.

“Do something,” she whispered to Mance. “Make them listen.” Mance shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“It is not for us to demand attention, Arya Wolfspawn,” Tormund replied. “Our alliance with the mountain men is fragile at best, and the hall of Hurrik’s Perch is a place of council, not command.” Arya rolled her eyes. _It’s little wonder these people dwell in forests and hills, rather than castles._ _Wolfspawn_ was the name Tormund had given her, after she’d regaled him of her exploits at the Dreadfort and on the Kingsroad. Many of the other wildlings had begun calling her by the title as well, no matter how many times she told them her name was _Stark_. For the wildlings knew each other by their deeds, not by the houses or keeps they belonged to.

Mance rose at last and held out his hands. He stood there until the clan chiefs turned to him, and fell silent. “My lords, please. We must make a decision. The Wall is—”

“The Wall is none of our concern,” one of the chiefs interrupted. “Bolton is the real threat here. If Stannis and has host have indeed been defeated at Winterfell, then we must fortify our position here.”

“We should bend the knee,” cried another. “There is no sense in taking up arms against Winterfell and the Dreadfort.”

“Ha!” Tormund cried. “Is that how you kneelers solve every problem.”

“Stannis may yet live,” Mance insisted. “Bolton’s position is weaker than you know. And the Dreadfort itself is destroyed.” He glanced at Arya. “He has suffered many casualties, and half of his bannermen have abandoned him. If the word of Manderly’s betrayal holds true—”

“Then we have simply switched one tyrant for another,” the chief replied.

A stout, hairy man at the other end of the hall pounded his axe against the floor for attention. “Stannis is the key,” he bellowed. “If he can take Winterfell, then we will control the western arm of the North. An alliance of mountain men, Kingsmen and wildlings is a force to be reckoned with. And with that Greyjoy slag as Stannis’ hostage, the Ironmen will be kept at bay too. But this only works if we stick together. The Stark girl will allow us to—”

“And what if he doesn’t take Winterfell?” the chief cried, getting to his feet again. “What if Stannis’ head sits atop a pike, as Ramsay claimed. What then, huh? What do you think Roose will do to us? What do you think the Lannister’s will do to us? We all remember the Red Wedding. These people are ruthless!”

“These people are Godless!” Arya roared, her heart aflame. “These people have drenched themselves in the blood of your kin, and then demanded you lick their boots clean. These people slew your own lord in cold blood… my father!” Her chest pounding with rage. “And you wish to kneel to them like dogs, and praise their sword arm? Well I’m sick of kneeling. Winter has come, my lords. Now is not the time for dogs. Now is the time for wolves.” A choir of cheers erupted from wildling and clansman alike. Arya realised she had drawn Titan in her ire, and quickly sheathed it.

“HA!” roared Tormund, slapping his belly. “We’ll make a spearwife of you yet, my lady.”

“My lords,” Mance cried, trying desperately to be heard above the noise. “This is folly! Bolton must be confronted, but our true enemy lies not behind the walls of Winterfell. Our true enemy lies North, beyond the Haunted Forest and the Frostfangs; white wraiths on rotting horses, who wield swords of ice and command an army of the dead. You know of what I speak!”

“Wildling folktales,” snorted a chief. Mance ignored the remark.

“What good is it to win the North, but lose the realm? An army of cold death is marching towards us. Ask any wildling and he will tell you it’s true. These are not ghost stories, these are real. All that stands between Westeros and another Long Night is a wall of ice with no one to man it. It’s Lord Commander has been cut down, its castles are half deserted, and it’s men war with each other. We must march our forces north to reclaim the Wall… before it is too late.”

“None of us here support the mutiny of the Night’s Watch,” the bearded man replied. “The death of Jon Snow was a tragedy that must not go unpunished, but we cannot interfere with their business. The Wall defends the realm; it is not part of it.”

Mance shook his head. “We would do little good at Winterfell… I’m sorry, but our forces are not strong enough to take the castle on our own. And it would take at least three weeks to get there, by which time we would be too exhausted to fight; twice as long if those black clouds on the horizon have their way. Dead or alive, the fight at Winterfell belongs to Stannis and his men. Our fight lies north.” Mance’s words were met with a flurry of hushed exchanges. Tormund spoke before any of the clansmen could interject.

“Castle Black has been seized by Bowen Marsh, the self-styled 999th Lord Commander. Now, Marsh is holding Stannis’ wife, daughter, and priestess hostage. If we were able to rescue them, it would put us all in good stead with the King. East Watch remains empty after Cotter Pyke was attacked trying to evacuate wildlings from Hardhome, but it seems that we have found something of an ally at the Shadow Tower. Ravens arrived this morning, bearing the seal of Denys Mallister.” Tormund unfurled a piece of parchment, while a blanket of silence draped over the council. “He writes that the Night’s Watch is crumbling into chaos. He writes that all ranging’s have ceased; that while the food stores run dry, the men are deserting their posts daily; and that the Haunted Forest has become infested with Wights and other dead creatures. He is cut off from Castle Black and begs for any and all assistance in retaking the Wall, and restoring the defence of the realm.” He cast the letter to the floor, and drew his blade. “I say… I say we answer that call! Let Bolton and his pets tear each other apart. Their reign is ended; they just don’t know it yet. Our fight is in the north!”

“Why should we help them?” Yelled a wildling from the weirwoods. “I am no crow!” He spat.

“Nor I,” Mance replied. “But Jon Snow gave us safe passage beyond the Wall; he gave us a land to call our own, safe from the icy shadow of the White Walkers… and they killed him for it! If we wish to forge our own kingdom—the Kingdom of the Free Folk—then it is up to us to defend it. You know the enemy that festers beyond the Wall. You have all seen it.” He drew his blade alongside Tormund’s. “Who will join us?!”

“I am with you,” Arya said at once, standing. “My brother will not have died in vain. For Winterfell!” She drew Titan and raised it to the grey sky. “For the North!” More and more swords went up, as the cheering rose and trembled through Hurrik’s Perch like a great war drum. Wildling and Mountain Man alike threw up their blade or pike or shield, and chanted in some primal tongue that lusted for blood. As Nymeria flung back her head and howled, Arya knew that Mance had mustered their army.


	3. Arya at the Wall

**Arya at the Wall**

Nymeria had been missing for three days by the time they reached Queenscrown. The direwolf would often leave Arya’s side during the day, to hunt or seek out other wolves, but she had always returned by night-fall. Yet, three moons had passed and there was still no sign of her. Nymeria was a fierce beast, and could handle herself, but Arya couldn’t help but worry. The day of her disappearance, she’d been frantic and restless, barking at shadows and tearing chunks of bark from trees with her claws. She’d dashed off north, into the morning mists, yowling at some phantom scent that only she could trace. Arya could no longer sense the direwolf’s presence, and she felt strangely empty inside.

The journey from Hurrik’s Perch to the New Gift had been tough. The snows were mercifully light, but the night air had become bone-chillingly cold. And during the day, their path was dogged by a dense, silvery mist that obscured anything ten feet from one’s face. Every few hours, Tormund would need to halt their march to make sure they were following the map correctly, and hadn’t gotten turned around in the fog.

Of the three thousand wildlings who had settled in the western hills, a little over half had agreed to march north with Arya and Mance, though many of them were spearwives, or children of twelve and thirteen. Fortunately, the mountain clans had fortified their ranks with a further one-hundred axemen. June and the other Dreadfort survivors had stayed in the hills. June had begged to come, but Arya could not have beared losing her again, and so the mountain men promised to keep her safe. Most had survived the trek, though at least three dozen had deserted them on the second day. They arrived at the abandoned village of Queenscrown to find another five-hundred wildlings waiting for them. Five-hundred wildlings, and one giant, that is. Arya and the mountain men had never seen a giant before. One of the axemen had almost loosed an arrow on the shaggy creature, but Tormund had stopped him. Arya had always thought the giants were just make-believe, or had been gone so long as to make no difference. But there it sat, as real as rain. Tormund had announced the giant’s name to her, but she’d forgotten it already.

“Wun Wun will be fine,” he’d told her. “He’s peaceable enough, as long as he’s left alone. Best not to get too close. He could swat your head clean off, as you might swat a fly.” Arya had obeyed.

Queenscrown was a slightly eerie place. Even with their enormous host, the ruins felt dark and lonely. A frozen lake bordered the village, with a single tower rising from the centre of it. Arya wondered what might be inside it, but there didn’t seem any way of accessing the holdfast, short of braving the thin crust of ice. _The shadow of the Wall looms large here,_ though she could not see it through the dark haze.

The wildling captains gathered around a fire, in the middle of the village. Arya and two clan chiefs were also present. Tormund stood over a crudely drawn map of the Wall, etched into the snow.

“Now… the Shadow Tower lies here by the Gorge, at the far west end of the Wall.” Tormund prodded at the snow with a stick. “Denys Mallister has already taken what few crows he can spare, and is making his way east. Mance will march the main part of our army, and meet him here,”—he traced a line along the map—“at the Nightfort. I will lead a small force to Castle Black, a few leagues east, and assault Bowen Marsh and his men directly. I’m sure Wun Wun will come in handy there.” Wun Wun looked up at the mention of his name, and grunted approval in some strange tongue. The giant was leaning against a huge tree, slurping at a skin of wine.

Mance stepped forward. “With no blockades facing south, Castle Black will have to summon all of its forces against Tormund and Wun Wun, allowing Mallister and I to storm them from the west, unaware.” The wildling lords nodded in approval. The plan seemed sound enough, but Arya was not convinced.'

“We shouldn’t give up our position so easily,” she said. “Mallister writes that Marsh has at least four hundred men inside Castle Black.”

“Minus the ones he’s locked up, or put to death,” a captain interjected.

Arya continued, “True, the keep is vulnerable from the south, but not from the west. Marsh isn’t stupid; he knows Mallister will attempt an assault. The western gate will be the most heavily guarded, and while Mance may have the greater numbers, the top of the Wall is far too narrow and slippery. Your host will be funnelled into ranks of four or five men, while Marsh pummels you with arrows and spears and burning oil. You will have no siege weapons or battering rams.” Arya rubbed her forehead. “No… surprise is our best weapon. We can’t let him know what is happening until the last possible moment.”

“What are you thinking?” Mance said, raising an eyebrow.

Arya thought for a moment, examining the map carefully. “Here,” she prodded at the fort beside Castle Black.

“Oakenshield?” Mance replied.

“Yes. Marsh will have all of his sentries watching the west, waiting for Mallister to strike. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s raised some barricades facing south, as well. But with Cotter Pyke lost somewhere in the Shivering sea, the east will be lightly guarded. If I ride ahead, to Oakenshield, I may be able to enter the castle from the east, under cover of darkness. I could try and open the western gate. Once you’re inside, the castle is yours.”

“My lady…” Mance said, his tone slightly anxious. “It isn’t… It’s too big of a risk. Stannis needs you to unite the North. Without a Stark in Winterfell, the North will be plunged back into chaos.”

“Oh, leave off Mance,” Tormund boomed. “This is Arya Wolfspawn, conquerer the Dreadfort. I’m sure she can handle a few crows.”

“Alright,” he said. “But if there is even a whiff of danger, you must retreat, and we’ll resume with the original plan. Promise me.” Arya nodded. “Alight, good. Come sunrise, I’ll march our host north-west, to the Nightfort. We should be there within two days. On the third moon, we will attack Castle Black, whether you are ready or not. Arya, you will go with Tormund and Wun Wun.” She nodded. “We need to make sure Stannis’ wife and daughter are rescued as well.”

“They’ll be in the ice cells, most like,” a wildling said. “Best you send some men there as soon as you’ve breached the gate, Mance. Men you can trust.” Mance nodded and adjourned the council.

As the wildlings captains returned to their camps, Arya wrapped herself in a great fur coat, and nestled into the roots of an oak tree. She could hear Wun Wun snoring and growling in the distance, and she thought of Nymeria, somewhere out in the frozen wastes. She could not feel her anymore, or slip into her skin. _I hope you’re okay girl. I couldn’t bear to lose you as well._ She watched Tormund’s map of the Wall slowly melt away, as the last few embers of their fire dwindled in the breeze. She thought of Jon, and the last time they’d been together. It was the day he’d given her Needle. She thought of her sister Sansa, wherever she was. She thought of her little brother, Bran, and her heart ached. She thought of Winterfell, and the old heart Tree. _Soon…_ she told herself, feeling exhausted. The world faded, and she dreamt of sharp, icy fingers, clawing at her face.

*   *   *

Mance had already left by the time she woke up. There were only a few hundred wildlings who had remained in camp. She and Tormund broke their fast on some warm honeyed oats, while the horses were roused and fed. Arya could not stop brooding over the horrible dream she’d had the night before. It’d felt so real. She’d woken to find her wrists all scratched and bloody, but it was her own fingernails that had done the damage. As the morning mists settled over Queenscrown, the wildlings mounted up for the last stretch of their journey.

“Two days at the most, I’ll wager,” Tormund was telling someone. “Two days and we’ll be drinking mead from Bowen Marsh’s skull. HA!” Arya wished she was that confident, but a horrible thought was growing in the pit of her stomach. The Shadow Tower continued to send disturbing reports. No contact had been made with Castle Black for over two months. Ravens had been sent, but none returned. One of the last ranging’s had spotted a strange black flag flying above Queensgate, but it had vanished the following day. Mallister deployed several envoys to treat with Marsh. One had been found last week in the Gift, his head missing and his entrails smeared across the snow. It may have just been wolves, but then why didn’t they eat the rest of him. _And where were the other envoys?_ Something wicked was happening at Castle Black and Arya would soon find out what it was.

As they rode, Arya spoke with some of the other wildlings. Most were spearwives or men grown, but she met a boy around her own age, named Finn. His people were from the Frozen Shore, though he had lived most of his life in the Frostfangs, under Mance. She asked him of things beyond the Wall, of mammoths and giants and White Walkers, and he asked her of Winterfell and the direwolves she and her siblings had discovered so many years ago. He even asked of Dorne, which some wildlings called the “Lands-of-Always-Summer”. They made their way along the bogs, eventually turning north-east as the sun went down. About a mile from the Kingsroad, they stumbled across some caves, and decided to make camp there.

Finn used some red stones in the cave to draw a direwolf’s head on Arya’s shield. He even mixed chalk from the fire with some water, to paint a white field around the head. Arya’s offered him a stag for his troubles, but Finn blushed and said it was a gift. Arya gave him a kiss on the cheek in thanks, and he turned an even brighter shade of red than the rocks. Tormund laughed at the exchange.

“Careful boy,” he bellowed. “That’s Arya Wolfspawn. She’d sooner open your throat with her teeth, than wed you.” The other wildlings laughed, and Arya gave Tormund a punch in the arm.

The next day, Arya woke before the sun was up. She’d dug fresh scratches into her arms during the night, after the ice demons visited another nightmare upon her. She fed Snowball and then herself. Tormund woke just as she was leaving the cave.

“Remember, little Arya,” he said, wearily. “If something goes wrong, get out of there as fast as you can. I could not forgive myself if Jon lost his little sister, along with his own life.” He smiled warmly, and squeezed her shoulder. “He loved you, you know. And he would have been proud of you.” Arya nodded, unable to respond. “I will attack the castle in the two moons, and then Mance the following day.”

“I’ll be there,” she replied. “I might even leave some crows for you to fight.” He laughed at that.

“Good luck…” She nodded, and urged Snowball into a canter.

Arya struck out across the winter wastes like a falcon in pursuit. She had been in the company of others so long, that she’d forgotten how fast and lean Snowball was. Now she was alone again, with the wind whipping through her hair, and the frost spraying up around her. Arya rose in her saddle and kicked again. Snowball nayed, hammering the white earth, as she raced across the Kingsroad. The Wall rose up before them, sheer and unflinching; a curtain of hard ice and rock that made Arya gasp. _This is truly the end of the world._ She knew it wasn’t of course. She knew there were trees and mountains and cold rivers beyond it, but that didn’t make it any less breathtaking. As the Wall grew before her, she slowed Snowball to a trot. She was riding parallel to it now, keeping a fair distance, less sentries spy her approach. _Surprise is the key. Surprise is our greatest weapon._ That had always been Arya Stark’s advantage. No one expected a little girl to fight back, but fight she did. From King’s Landing to Harrenhal; from the Trident to Braavos; from the Dreafort to the Wall, she had fought. And while all the great warriors and knights and kings lay rotting the earth, she had survived.

Day became night, as the towers of Oakenshield finally emerged from the horizon. Arya ached all over. She couldn’t imagine how tired Snowball must feel. She stroked the destriers mane, and kissed him lightly. “Good boy,” she whispered. “We’re almost there. And then you can rest, and eat grain and barley till you heart’s content.” Arya had not considered what to do with her horse once she ascended the Wall. Snowball was a White Harbour mount, and was trained for snowy terrain, but there was little in the way of grass this far north. Perhaps he would wander back to Queenscrown, though she doubted it. Hopefully she could return before the horse became too hungry.

It was pitch black by the time they arrived at the fort. From afar it looked somewhat impressive, with tall grey spires sprouting out of thick oaken archways. Up close, however, it was a sad, old keep; its walls cracked and crumbled across the snow. The smell of damp wood and rotting cinder clung to the air. Exhausted, Arya practically slid off Snowball. She opened a sack of oats for her loyal horse, and watched him wolf it down eagerly, before collapsing on the ground himself.

“Now you go easy on those,” she told him. “That’s your only food until I get back, unless you’ve taught yourself to hawk.” She scratched him along his mane, just like he liked, before kissing him farewell. “I’ll be back in a few days,” Arya promised. She hoped it wasn’t a lie.

Oakenshield was not difficult to get into. A few harsh kicks split the small gate open. With Castle Black so close, this fort had never seen much use. Even at the height of the Night Watch’s power, Oakenshield was only ever utilised as a watch-tower. It hadn’t been manned in over a five-hundred years, and she could see why. Rats and ravens staffed the tower now, and they did not take kindly to this stranger from the moors. Arya climbed the spiral staircase at the rear of the keep, and found a descent sized room to spend the night. It was dark and damp, but wrapped in her furs after a long ride, sleep came easily to Arya.

*   *   *

That night, Arya had her first wolf dream in over a week. She was running through a strange field. Fierce storm clouds were galloping across the sky, and the icy landscape was bathed in an eerie shadow that made her fur bristle. A strange smell filled Nymeria’s lungs, and she ran faster. The snow was falling thick and fast now. _What was that smell? She knew it… She knew it…_

Arya woke with a gasp. _Impossible,_ she thought. She reached up and felt her brow, slick with sweat. The room had not changed since she fell asleep several hours ago. The walls creaked and peeled, while rats scurried to and fro across the wet floor boards. She heard a dripping sound from somewhere down stairs. Outside she could feel the winter winds howling with menace. _A storm is coming,_ she realised. _A bad one._ They must take Castle Black soon, or they would all perish on the Wall. _At least Nymeria is still alive. But where is she? And where is she going?_

Arya made her way up several more sets of ladders, before finally emerging at the top of the Wall. The night air hit her like a wave of ice. She could feel her joints clench and stiffen; her blood freezing beneath her skin. Shivering, she approached the icy parapets, and looked out over the edge of the world. Far below lay a dark forest. It stretched out towards a row of pale mountains. The trees shook and swayed in the violent winds, and Arya took several steps backwards. She didn’t know what she expected of the world beyond the Wall, but this was not it. The lands were so bleak and lifeless. It filled Arya was a sense of impending dread. She was still half a sleep, and the wolf dream had rattled her nerves. Shaking, she climbed back inside the tower to regroup. _I just need some food in my belly,_ she told herself, but it didn’t help. The smell in the Oakenshield was terrible, but at least it held some semblance of warmth.

She waited until the sun had risen, before she resurfaced again. The chill was no less brutal, but at least she could see properly now. Pulling her furs up over her chin, Arya began the slow trek westward, towards Castle Black. The top of the Wall was wide enough to fit four men abreast, with stone walls on either side. But from this height, Arya felt as though she stood upon the edge of a knife. A knife that carved through the realms of men; with a dark, swaying forest to her right, and a sea of snow to her left. The wind howled and slashed at her face, and a great panic seized her mind _. I am on the edge of oblivion,_ she told herself. Terrifying thoughts coursed through her, as her feet scrambled across the icy surface of the Wall. She could see Castle Black in the distance, cutting through the white haze like a dagger. _No, not a dagger; a noose, hanging from the grey clouds._ A noose, let down by the Gods to end her misery. A gallows, like the one they made for her father.

 _Stop it,_ she told herself. _You are not some scared little mouse. You are Arya Wolfspawn. They are the ones who should be afraid; not you._ Syrio Forel’s words echoed in her mind: _Fear cuts deeper than swords. Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Mance had been right; winter changed the way she saw the world. At her darkest moments, Arya would often whisper that revenge would warm her soul, and fill the place where her heart had been. But she knew that was a lie. Killing Ramsay did not bring back her mother, and killing Marsh would not bring back her brother. She had to keep her nerve, and remember her training. She had to remember her father’s words— _winter is coming—_ for their way was the old way. Planning and discipline won battles, not anger; not hatred.

As she drew closer to the winch above Castle Black she spotted someone leaning over the edge of the Wall. He was cloaked in black from head to toe, and his breath painted the air white. A horn was strapped to his belt. _I must not let him use it._ She crouched low, her footsteps as light as snowflakes. The man was staring out beyond the Wall, and Arya could see that beneath his hood, his head was shaved down to the scalp. A dagger appeared in her hand as she approached the Night’s Watchman. _As silent as a shadow._ She paused. There were tears in the man’s eyes. He was crying. Quick as lightening, she slashed the horn from his cloak and snatched it off him.

“Wha—!” he cried, turning. He reached for his sword, but Arya brought the dagger to his throat, pressing hard.

“Quiet,” she whispered. He released the hilt and took a step back.

“Please…” he managed, wiping the frozen tears from his eyes. “Please, have mercy.”

“Mercy!” Arya shot back. “Why should I show you mercy? You killed Jon.”

“No,” he stammered. “I never… Jon was my friend. He was my brother.”

“He was _my_ brother!” she spat, pressing the blade deeper into his flesh. A trickle of blood rolled down his neck. “You betrayed him; all of you. I should slit your throat right here.” The watchman stared at her, unblinking. Finally, he sunk to his knees.

“You’re her… You’re Arya Stark… aren't you? Jon; he tried to save you. He did. But Marsh… Marsh and the others…”

“I know what they did. Why didn’t anyone stop them?”

“Some tried, but… but Marsh had too many men. The wildlings fled; the King's men fled… Anyone who fought back was killed or locked up... It was a bloodbath.” The man was shaking now, and not from the cold. “Marsh… he said it was for the good of the Watch. He said Jon was a wildling now, and was handing the realm over to our enemies; that he was threatening to lead an attack on Winterfell.” He fell into the ice and curled up in a ball. “Marsh says that the Wall is his now, and that we are… his slaves. He says he is the Night’s King reborn.” Fresh tears rolled down his face, and froze to his cheeks. “I didn’t want this!” he screamed. “I didn’t want any of this!”

“Quiet!” Arya hissed, but the man shoved her away, and stumbled to the edge of the walk-way.

“I should have fought back, like Pyp and Grenn.  But I… I was… so afraid.” The man climbed up onto the ledge overlooking the Haunted Forest. “Jon was my friend.”

“What are you doing?” Arya cried.

“I can’t go back down there. Marsh sees everything. He knows you’re coming. He knows about you and the wildlings…” The man stared into Arya eyes, and an age of sorrow passed between them. “You are all going to die…” And then he was gone. Arya ran to the edge of the Wall, just as his body vanished into the dark forest below. Terror coursed through Arya’s body. _Marsh knows._

She turned her head south, and saw the faint glow of Tormund’s host through the winter fog. _They are marching into an ambush._ She leaned over the edge of the winch and opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. It was no use. She was trapped a league above the world, with no way to warn them. Below she could see the spires of Castle Black pointing up at her like charred blades. Barbed iron barricades had been raised all along the castle walls, braced with large wooden beams and ice-sacks. Arya could make out a wide moat dug along the gates’ perimeter. Marsh had turned Castle Black into a fortress, protected from every angle. The wildlings would crash against it like waves on a cliff. They would freeze before they broke into the keep. It was protected from every angle… _except from above._

Arya opened the cage, and climbed into the winch. She grasped its gears, and began to heave with all her might. The machine groaned and cracked, breaking loose from the morning frost. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ Slowly, the machine began to move, clicking as it descended along the face of the Wall. The wind howled with eerie menace, as Arya lowered herself into the bowels of Castle Black. _How did it come to this?_ She asked herself, as the turrets of the Night’s Watch closed around her like the icy claws of her nightmare.


	4. Arya and the Night's King

**Arya and the Night’s King**

The winch shuddered to a halt, just above the training yard of Castle Black. The grounds were empty and vile, with streaks of muddy footprints woven across the fresh snow, and black ice creeping up the stone walls like cobwebs. The smells of rust and rot and spoilt leather crawled up Arya’s nostrils, making her gag. The gears had clenched shut with about twenty feet to go, so Arya was forced to climb the rest of the way. She grabbed onto the cold, crumbling bricks beside the winch, and started to edge her way down. Just as the she was about to set foot in the yard, Arya slipped on a gob of frost and fell face-first into the filthy snow. Cursing, she sloshed to her feet, and stumbled onto an armoury trestle for balance. The frost made her skin scream with the pain, and she could feel her heart racing. Her eyes darted along the castle walkways, but no sentries had been roused by the clatter. Arya shook the muck from her face, and rubbed her hands together for some warmth.

She had made it into the castle grounds at last, and without being seen. She knew she ought to be relieved, but the watchman’s words still echoed in her mind. _Marsh sees everything… He knows you’re coming… the Night’s King reborn…_ Something wicked was festering within these walls; she could feel it. For all her guile, Arya still felt like a mouse in a nest of vipers. _A mouse with fangs,_ she thought, grinding her teeth. So far, the only living thing she’d come across, since leaving the wildlings, had been the watchman on the Wall. But his words had put more fear into Arya’s heart than anything she’d witnessed at the Dreadfort. _What evil plots has Marsh hatched since Jon’s murder?_ She asked herself, as she recalled the man’s body vanishing into the Haunted Forest (for the hundredth time). It would be different than her assault on the Dreadfort. The men of the Night’s Watch were hardened fighters, and Castle Black was their most heavily manned stronghold. She knew she could not triumph through strength of arms, but if she could just slay Marsh… then the rest may follow. _Cut off the head, and the body will fall,_ she had heard her father say once. She had to be quick; quick and deadly. With their presence known, the wildlings could only hold out for so long.

Arya made her way into the shade of the north tower. She pulled her furs tight around her neck, and tried to think of some place warm. The winds above the Wall had been deathly cold, but somehow it was even worse down here. As she’d lowered the winch along the face of the Wall, Arya’s bones had practically ached from chill. The warmth in her blood had slowly faded, and now only ice-water coursed through her veins. As she approached the tower, the air in the castle yard sent a razor of menace along her spine. Winter had truly come, and Arya was staring it square in the face.

Arya could make out a faint flicker of light, in the tower window. She crept towards it slowly, making sure to keep to the shadows. The light moved and shimmered, casting strange shadows across the snow. Arya’s throat tightened as the voices of men wafted through the night air. They were quiet at first, but became louder as she neared the base of the tower steps. Arya gave the walkways another quick glance, before ascending the wooden steps to the tower entrance. A deep voice quavered within. The words were muffled, but Arya could make out bits and pieces.

“…Let them come!” the voice cried. “…Wildlings dogs… let them see…” A chorus of shouting and stamping drowned out the speaker. Arya crouched low, sucked in some air, and pressed her ear to the iron door. “Brothers… behold,” said the same voice. “Our enemies rise up from all sides of the Wall. Wildling savages and Northern rebels… They slither towards us like maggots to a wounded beast. Even the Shadow Tower has betrayed us… and yet the castle is still ours!” Cheers erupted from within the tower. _Bowen Marsh,_ Arya thought. _It must be him._

“The White God,” the voice continued. “He protects us. He sends a great storm of ice and shadow, to drown out our foes.” _What madness is this?_ Arya pondered, not daring to breath. “For we are the Night’s Watch… and the night protects us!”

A hundred voices chanted back, “The night is our shield; the winter our sword!” The chanting continued, louder and more savage. “The night is our shield; the winter our sword!” Arya stood back up, and took a step away from the door. _They have all gone mad._ She looked down and saw that her hands were shaking violently. She watched in horror as a vein of frost crept over the door frame, and suddenly Arya felt very dizzy. “The night is our shield; the winter our sword!” Arya staggered back further. _What is happening?_ She gasped. Her eyes darted towards the window on the second story of the tower. Without thinking, she grasped at a crack in the bricks, and scrambled up the wall. Her hands were numb by the time they closed around the edge of the window, and with her last ounce of strength, Arya hoisted herself over the sill and felt hard wood slam into her chest. The chanting was much louder now. “The night is our shield; the winter our sword!” _They are right below me_ , she realized. Arya tried to move, but her arms and legs would not obey. She squirmed forward slightly, and saw that she was lying on a wooden platform, just above a mob of cloaked figures.

Inside the tower was—what looked like—a great dining hall, with long wooden tables and row after row of chairs. However, the figures were not sitting. They were kneeling on the stone floor, with their heads and arms thrust up to the ceiling. Arya could make out at least a hundred men, all garbed from head to toe in black furs; with shaved heads beneath their hoods. And instead of food and wine, the counters were covered in swords and shields and axes and spear-heads. The weapons were all crusted with black stains, and Arya could make out the smell of dry blood from where she lay. At the far end of the hall, a man stood atop an oaken plinth. His hands were raised as well; an expression of mad delight adorned his face. _Marsh!_ Arya almost roared, but she was too weak to move. Above Marsh hung a row of severed heads, skewered along a spiked frame. Their eyes were sunken and their mouths twisted open in one final moment of terror. Some of the faces were old men; others looked no older than Robb. To her relief, Arya could not see Jon among the mounts.

Finally, Marsh lowered his hands, and the chanting petered out. “I have sent half of our forces to Queensguard, to launch a surprise assault on the traitor Mallister and his wildling pets. Tormund’s host will attack us from the south… I have seen it.” Many of the men threw up their swords and shouted angrily, or stamped their spears against the floor. “Fear not brothers, for the White God will quell the fires of our enemies, and banish the light from their hearts. I shall slay the Red Whore, and offer up her womb as a sign of our devotion. May the Lord of Ice and Shadow cloak us with his might.”

“Lord of the Others defend us,” the men recited in unison. “For the night is our shield; and the winter our sword!”

“Get to your posts!” Marsh shouted above the hymn. “They will be here within the hour… And the snows will run red this night!” The mob cheered once more, but now their chants had transformed into a thunderous war-cry. With a whirl of his cloak, Marsh turned and marched through a door at the rear of the hall. Several watchmen scurried after him, as the rest of the men picked up

It wasn’t until the hall was completely empty, that warm blood started to course through Arya’s veins again. Her limbs twitched awake, and she struggled to her feet. _White God… Red Whore… Lord of the Others…_ Arya’s mind was almost as dazed as her body. Her thoughts flicked back to Old Nan’s tales of the Night’s King. _Had the Others really returned to Westeros? Had Marsh and his men pledged themselves to the White Walkers? Or had they simply gone insane._ Arya was inclined towards the latter, but something had happened here that she could not explain. Some queer spell had paralysed her body. _It’s not possible,_ she thought, climbing down from the platform. Then again, the wildlings had often spoken of the Others as if they had come back. _Either way, Marsh has to die._

As soon as her feet hit the floor, Arya was running across the dining hall to the door at the far end; the one Marsh and his guards had exited through. She opened it cautiously, drawing Titan as she did. A shiny staircase rose up before her, like a coiled snake, ready to strike. _Quickly and deadly,_ Arya reminded herself. _Cut off the head, and the body will follow._ Arya began to sprint up the steps. Titan pointed out before her as she ascended the tower. With head crouched low, her legs were a flurry of movement.

“Shhh…” murmured a voice above. “What’s that?” Arya turned a corner and found two men staring at her. Before they could even react, she flicked her sword across one of their throats, and drove it through the chest of the other. She pulled the blade free, and kept on up the stairs, with nary a second glance. She heard one of the men gurgling in pain behind her. There was no point hiding the bodies. The rest of the Marsh’s men had gone to defend the southern barricade against Tormund.

Arya turned and found another Black Brother staring at her. “What the—?!” he cried. This one was faster. He tore out his sword and lunged at her. Arya swerved left and slashed Titan across the man’s ankle. He cried out in pain, but swung at her again. Arya backed away from the man. She had the higher ground now, but this one was strong. He stabbed at her in anger. Arya deflected the blow and kicked him hard in the belly. The man stumbled back, tripped, and went tumbling down the stone steps. “Fucking bitch,” he moaned. Arya draw her sword across the man’s neck. Gouts of blood poured from his open throat, and his eyes faded. _Quickly and deadly,_ Arya remembered. _I cannot stop._ _Tormund will be here soon._ She turned, and ran further up the stairs.

Arya could feel the element of surprise slipping from her grasp. She had to get to Marsh before the alarms were raised. She knew the Lord Commanders quarters were just above her. If she could just get there in time…

Arya came at last to a set of wide wooden doors at the top of the staircase. She could hear angry voices filtering up the steps behind her. She kicked the doors open, slammed them shut again, and wedged her shield beneath the handles. The cold night air her hit her face like a slab of ice. She was outside once more; this time on a wide stone terrace, overlooking the interior of Castle Black.

Arya ran to the edge of the platoform and looked down. Far below she could see the training yard again. It had been empty when she’d arrived; now it was filled with dozens of tiny figures. The men of the Night’s Watch ran to and fro like ants, sifting out of the yard, up ladders and along the walk-ways, into watchtowers and murder holes, and along the walls that guarded the castle. Alarms rang out, long and terrible. Something was happening.

Beyond the southern barricades, a sea of white stretched out into the horizon. And there, just beyond the castle gates, a crowd of men were fanning out. _It’s Tormund,_ Arya’s heart leapt into her throat. _He has begun the attack._ Among them, Arya could make out the giant, Wun Wun. He was clad in crudely fashioned steel, with a huge tree trunk slung over his shoulder. He heaved the butt of it against the castle gates with a shuddering thump. The Nightwatchmen began pouring arrows into the giant, but he heaved the trunk again. THUMP! More alarms rose up from the carnage below. The rest of Tormund’s host had split in two and were making their way around to the sides of the castle. Suddenly, Arya heard a great crash from behind her.

She spun around to find the wooden doors shaking. Shouts and curses shook the frame, and with each heave, Arya could see her direwolf shield splintering apart. Arya looked around for a place to hide. To her right were a pile of crates and trestles. Arya crouched down behind them, and pulled her hood tight over her face.

The sounds of battle filled the air, and mixed with the thump of the wooden doors, Arya covered her ears and wished she was anywhere but here. Arya heard her shield shatter, and the wooden door swung open with a bang.

“What the fuck is this!” she heard a man cry.

“It’s some shield… or something,” another replied. “Who would—?”

“It must be one of the prisoners,” said another. “Some of ‘em must’ve escaped. George and Olf are dead. Arge’s had half his head cut off.”

“I’m gonna gut that Red cunt!”

“You idiot. The Red Witch is with Marsh.”

“Come on! Let’s go check the dungeons… You two – guard the Lord Commander’s quarters, but whatever you do… don’t go in there. He and the Red God’s slut need some alone time.” The men laughed. Arya waited until their footsteps had faded away, and then she waited some more. She climbed out from behind the crates and shook the filth from her cloak. Her direwolf shield lay in splinters on the ground. On the far side of the terrace was a narrow walkway, that curved around to a dark spire. The spire jutted high above any of the other towers in Castle Black, and Arya knew it had to be Marsh’s quarters.

Arya ran to the walkway, and crouched behind the parapets. She edged her way towards Marsh’s spire. Below her, men were shouting over the wail of war horns. The two armies were exchanging arrow heads, as Wun Wun continued to batter the gates with all his might. THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Arya knew they could not hold out for much longer. They needed Mance’s host. They needed the Shadow Tower men. But they were probably fighting Marsh’s men at Queensguard. Arya found herself thinking of Finn, and wishing she’d stayed with them. As she got closer, she could see two spearmen guarding the entrance to the spire. They were talking to each other. Arya stopped, and held her breath.

“What if the wildlings break through?” one was saying.

“Well,” replied the other. “I imagine they’ll fuck us… and then eat us. Hopefully, not in that order.”

“But the White God. He will protect us.”

“Oh, spare me… White Gods, Red Gods… Old Gods, Drowned Gods; they can all kiss my ass.” The man held up his spear and gave an awful grin. “This is the only god I need.”

The other man looked at him wearily. “You had best not let Marsh hear you talking like that.”

“Marsh? Marsh would’ve been hanged by now, if the whole damned realm weren’t torn to pieces. He kills the Lord Commander, and then has the gall to call Ser Mallister a traitor. No, the Others can have Marsh… if he loves ‘em so much.”

Arya stood up from the shadows and pointed Titan at the two men.

“Who the fuck?” One of the men exclaimed. His surprise turned to laughter as he looked at Arya and her enormous sword.

“Must be one of the prisoners,” said the other. “Garth said some might have escaped. Where’d you get that sword, sweetie. Give it here.” The man reached out to grab her, and Arya snapped the sword across his hand. “Ahh!” the man cried out, dropping his spear.

“You little bitch,” the other man roared. He thrust his spear at Arya chest. She side-stepped, deflecting the blow into the bleeding man. Arya lunged forward. She slashed at the spearmen, but he blocked her with his gauntlet.

“Where is Marsh?!” Arya yelled, wrenching her blade free. The man ignored her, and swung at her temple. She ducked it just in time and drove Titan hard into the man’s shin. His legs buckled from the blow, and he dropped his spear. She scooped it up, twirled once, and punched the point of the spear right through the man’s throat. He let out a long, terrible groan, and collapsed.

The other man was cowering on the floor beside him; his glove soaked with blood. “Please,” he begged. “Mercy. I don’t care about the White God; honest I don’t. I just didn’t want Marsh to kill me, like… like the others.” Arya felt a pang of sympathy, and so she knocked him out with the hilt of her sword. She looked over her shoulder, but there was no one there. Every able bodied man was down on the castle walls, fighting the wildlings.

Arya gazed up at the thick set of iron doors. They were engraved with the image of a wolf, baying at the moon, with the vow of the Night’s Watch printed below in curling type. The handles were taller than Arya. She grabbed them both, and pulled. The doors creaked open slowly, and a rush of warm air hit Arya in the face. She stepped into the dark corridor, and heaved the doors closed behind her. The sounds of battle faded to nothing, as they sealed shut.

Arya was surrounded by silence again; silence and darkness. Her left hand found the wall, with Titan stretched out in her right. She moved forward slowly, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. The air inside the Lord Commander’s tower was strangely warm, yet the walls and floor were slick with ice. As she moved, Arya saw shapes in the darkness; strange figures, dancing. She thought she smelt rotting flesh. Visions of her mother appeared; her body floating in the stream. She heard people cheering, as her father’s head hit the gallows. She saw Ramsay’s face, curling into a smile. Then Arya was a wolf again, bounding through a field of snow. She could smell _him_ … somewhere.

All of a sudden, the visions were gone. Arya felt tears running down her face. _It’s not real,_ she told herself. _It’s just another trick._ She wiped her face and scowled. _Nymeria, where are you?_ Then… she heard laughter; a cold, sick, venal cackle that made her shiver. A blue light flickered at the far end of the corridor; the silhouette of a doorway, slightly ajar. Arya approached it, ever so slowly. The laughter continued, becoming louder and more twisted. As she got closer to the door, she could make out a woman weeping.

“Do as you will,” the woman croaked. “You may defile my body, but the Lord of Light shall protect my soul.” Her voice was throaty, and flavoured with the accents of the east.

“You have no power here, priestess,” a man replied. The man’s voice was Marsh’s, but his tone was much deeper, and raspier than before. “The White God now has dominion over this place. He has chosen me as his weapon against the Andals. His agents in the Shadowlands have found the dragons. Once they are destroyed, the last of your master’s power will be drained from this world.” Arya approached the door, as quietly as she could. She crouched down. Titan was shaking in her hand. The blue light spiralled against the wall, and she was afraid to look into the room. She knew she had to move quickly, but something made her hesitate.

“R’hllor defeated you once…” the woman said, clearly in pain.

“Azor Ahai is dead. I slew him myself.” Marsh spat back.

“Fool,” the woman hissed. “His body is slain… but his spirit endures. The direwolf has escaped; has he not?” There was a moment of silence then, and Arya could hear only a dripping sound.

“He will be found,” Marsh said, after a while. “And once he is, I will sew your head to his body, and bury you a thousand leagues beneath the ice, where no warmth may reach you.” Arya heard a wet slice, and the woman screamed. Marsh began to laugh again; a terrible, blood-curdling laugh. “You have failed my lady. Once these savages are dealt with… it will begin.” Arya began to shiver violently. She could feel her blood freezing beneath her skin. _No,_ she told herself. _Not this time._ Arya stood up, and entered the room.

Inside stood Marsh, wrapped in his huge black furs. There was a knife in his hand, but instead of steel, the blade looked as though it was made of ice. It looked razor sharp, and seemed to glitter as it moved, throwing blues and pinks across the stone walls. A woman was there also. She had red hair with streaks of grey. Her hands were raised above her, with a hundred wounds dug into her arms and wrists; many of them fresh. Her palms where fastened to the wall with nails. She was naked, with blood running all the way down her body and into a bucket of ice where her feet were planted. The expression on her face was full of pain and sadness. Marsh bore no expression. His eyes were empty. On the left side of the room lay two dead bodies – a thin, older woman, with a whiff of hair on her lip, and a young, homely girl with rotting skin on the side of her face. Marsh lowered his knife at the sight of Arya. The red woman raised her head slowly, and stared in quiet sorrow.

No one said anything for a while, and the drip of the ice bucket was the only sound. Arya was the one to break the silence. “It’s over Marsh,” she said. “Lay down your sword.” Marsh tilted his head, as though trying to figure out a puzzle.

“It is over,” he replied at last. “It’s all over.” Marsh leapt at Arya, slashing at her face. Arya ducked the swing, and rolled left. She held Titan out in front of her, circling her foe. Marsh’s ice blade glimmered blue, then purple, then pink, then red. He lunged again. Arya side-stepped, and delivered a deep cut to his leg. Marsh staggered past her, but didn’t make a sound. His leather was torn wide open at the knee, but no blood came out. This time Arya went on the offensive. She swung Titan across Marsh’s neck, but he backed off just in time. Arya stabbed right, then left, hitting nothing but air. She wheeled around quickly and saw her opening. She delivered a hard slice towards Marsh underarm, but he caught the blow with his blade, and Titan suddenly exploded into fragments. Arya was blown into the wall, as her sword disappeared into a million tiny pieces on the floor. Her forearm screamed in pain, and she could taste blood. All that was left of Titan was a hilt, and it was so cold that it burnt Arya’s palm. She threw it to the side, and struggled across the floor, away from Marsh. _No,_ she thought. _No, how can this be?_

She crawled towards the red woman, looking around for a weapon; anything to defend herself. There was nothing. Arya grabbed the woman’s legs, and whispered “please,” to no one in particular. Her mind searched for Nymeria, somewhere in the wild. She watched Marsh’s shadow approach her from behind, and rolled over to face her death.

“You must fight it Marsh,” the red woman cried. “There is goodness in you; I can feel it. You must not let him control you.” Marsh drew back his knife. His eyes were pale and unflinching. Arya felt the cold blade slide deep into her chest. She gasped aloud, and grabbed Marsh’s wrist with both hands. _Maybe now I’ll get to see Jon again,_ she consoled herself. Marsh tried to pull the knife back out, but she held him firmly. He pulled again, and her grip tightened. She looked him dead in the eyes, and shook her head, mouthing the word “no”. Marsh’s eyes changed then; a twinkle of warmth appeared. Colour rushed back into his face. He relinquished the knife and fell onto the floor.

“Just leave me alone,” he whispered, shaking his head. His voice was different now “Just let me die.” He looked up at the red woman. “Forgive me,” he said, tears streaming down his face. “I didn’t want to do it. He made me. I can feel him always; like claws of ice, digging into my brain; twisting me to and fro like a puppet on a string.” His gaze turned to Arya. “Please kill me. Please… just kill me.” Arya felt the world grow silent around her, as if she were underwater. She slid the blade out of her chest, and swung hard across Marsh throat. Blood exploded out of his neck, and his head went spinning across the wet stones. Arya fell back against the wall, dizzy with pain. Blood was pouring out of her chest, and it mixed with Marsh’s on the floor. The ice knife was melting away in her hand, and she let it slip through her fingers.

“Little one!” she heard the red woman say. “Little wolf child… you did it…” The woman had pulled herself free of the wall.

“The western gate…” Arya groaned. “You have to open it… You have to let Mance into the castle.”

“I will, Arya Stark. I promise.” The world faded into darkness, and Arya felt warm hands press against her chest.


	5. Arya sends her Regards

**Arya sends her Regards**

The darkness stayed with her for a long time. She heard voices, and felt the pain in her chest, but still she slept. She dreamt of Winterfell, and her mother. She dreamt of Nymeria and the wildlings. Years seemed to pass… centuries… The world became a distant memory; a foreign land. Time and thoughts seemed to flow together, like a river into a vast ocean. She was a scared little girl, all alone in the shadows, searching for her family; her pack. She was floating…

And then, one day, she woke up. Her eye-lids opened wearily, and she squeezed them shut again, as the morning light flowed into the room. Her whole body swelled and ached. She felt the breeze from an open window. It was cool, but not cold. She heard music, and a voice singing. Her eyes flittered open again, and saw a man, sitting in a chair. He was facing a window, and he was plucking a lute, humming to himself.

“One day she will wake, and return to her prowl… Little Stark, little Stark; rest your head now…”

“Mance,” Arya groaned, her voice small and raspy. The man turned his head.

“Little Arya,” he smiled. “You’re awake.” She felt dizzy and weak, but the sight of Mance filled her with a timid joy.

“What’re you singing?” she asked, squinting through the light.

“It’s a song I wrote… about you.” He strummed a few strings of the lute. The notes were warm and playful. It had been so long since Arya had listened to music. “Would you like to hear it?” Arya nodded meekly.

“It’s not quite finished yet… But here goes…

 

 _“Little Stark, little Stark; won’t you come in,_

 _For the night is so bleak, and cold are its winds._

 _The North is no place for a sweet little lass;_

 _Its snows are too deep, they cover the grass._

 _Little Stark, little Stark; do put down your sword;_

 _Remember what happened to the rest of your horde._

 _The North is no place for a meek little Stark;_

 _The wolves are all dead; their eyes have gone dark._

 _Little Stark, little Stark; what big teeth have you;_

 _She growled, ‘All the better to bite you in two.’_

 _‘For the North is my place, and for it I'll fight,’_

 _‘Both the Bastard of Bolton and the King of the Night.’_

 _And her howls can be heard from the Neck to the Wall;_

 _The child of wolves, who rose from the fall._

 _One day she will wake and return to her prowl;_

 _Little Stark, little Stark; rest your head now.”_

 

“I love it,” Arya said, offering a faint smile. “No one’s ever written a song about me before.” Mance placed the lute beneath the window, and dragged his chair over to where Arya lay.

“It won’t be the last,” he said. “I promise you that.”

Arya’s last moments came rushing back to her – _the attack on Castle Black… Marsh torturing the red woman… the ice dagger…_ “The western gate!” she cried out. “I was going to open it… but Marsh, and… and—”

“Arya!” Mance interrupted. “It’s alright… we did it. Lady Melisandre opened the gates for us, and we took the castle within an hour.”

 Lady Mela… who?”

“The woman in red; she’s Stannis’ priestess. She said that you saved her life.”

“Oh… her. Marsh was… he was doing horrible things to her. He said he had to sacrifice her to the White God… or something. I don’t know.” Arya sat up and massaged her temples. She had a splitting headache. “Is she okay?”

“Here, Arya, drink this.” Mance handed her a glass of water, and she sipped at it.

“Melisandre is fine. She’s spent the past week nursing you back to health.”

“I’ve beenout for a week,” she cried. Mance nodded.

“You lost a lot of blood, but Melisandre managed to mend your wounds. She’s barely left your side.”

“I feel sick,” Arya groaned. She reached beneath her blankets and felt the part of her chest where the ice dagger had been. The skin was all torn and scarred, but the wound seemed to have heeled over. _Impossible,_ Arya thought. _She must be one of those red priests, like Thoros._ “Then Castle Black has been retaken?” She asked, tentatively.

“Oh yes,” Mance nodded, refilling her glass. “With Marsh dead, most of the crow’s surrendered without a fight. We had to put a few zealots to the sword, but after that, the rest laid down their arms. Denys Mallister has had all of the officers placed in ice cells, until a trial can be arranged.”

“Trial?” Arya said, raising an eye brow.

Mance shrugged. “You kneelers have a queer way of doing things. Mallister’s assumed control of the garrison. Don’t worry though; we wildlings outnumber the crows ten to one… in case he gets any funny ideas.” He shook his head and let out a booming laugh. “Wildlings on the Wall! Who would have thought it, aye? It’s strange times we live in, I suppose.”

Just then, the door creaked open, and in walked the red woman Arya had rescued. She looked completely different. The streaks in her hair had vanished, and she wore a long, flowing red gown. The cuts in her face and wrists had almost healed, and her skin was full of colour and warmth. Lush, crimson hair cascaded over her shoulders. She was beautiful, and she strode towards Arya and Mance with all the grace of Queen. “Ah, so our little wolf girl has returned to the land of the living?” She said with a throaty laugh. She sat down at the edge of Arya’s bed. “I owe you my life, little one. The Lord of Light must surely have sent you to me.” She placed a soft hand on Arya’s thigh, and she could feel the heat radiating from it. “My name is Melisandre. I am a servant of the blessed R’hllor. Please tell me you don’t worship those devil trees as your brother did.”

Arya eyed the woman cautiously. “The god I serve has many names,” she replied.

A curious gaze appeared across Melisandre’s face. “Yes indeed… and many different faces, I imagine. The Braavosi have taught you much in the arts of war. But now you must let me instruct you in the ways of Light and Flame.”

Arya sat up in her bed. Her headache was starting to fade, as memories came flooding back into her mind. “Who were those corpses in Marsh’s room?” she asked. Melisandre and Mance looked down.

“Yes,” the red woman breathed, a hint of sorrow passing over her eyes. “The Queen Selyse… and the princess Shireen. A terrible thing…”

“They were King Stannis’ wife and daughter,” Mance explained. “We’ve discovered quite a number of disturbing things throughout the castle. Marsh and his followers made sacrifices, and performed blood rituals on the prisoners in the ice cells… some too awful to repeat in the presence of a lady.”

“Marsh became an instrument of the Lord of Ice and Shadow,” Melisandre continued, “whose name may never be uttered. His mind was enslaved by the Others. They used him to try and bring down the Wall.”

“‘Bring down the Wall?’” Arya gasped. “How?! How could this happen?”

“There canno longer be any doubts, my child,” Melisandre replied, her voice thick with grief. “Ask any of your wildling friends… the Others have awoken in the north. They have risen up from their ice palaces, and are slaying anyone in their path.”

“Their speed is ungodly,” Mance whispered, shaking his head.

“Any who fall to their blades, rise up to join the enemy’s ranks,” Melisandre continued, her eyes glowing like embers. “They will strike hard and fast at the world of men, and their coming will herald the darkest winter since the Long Night, eight thousand years ago. Marsh’s demise may have delayed their attack, but it will not be long before the Wall is breached.” Arya shook her head in amazement.

“And instead of trying to defend themselves,” Mance said. “What do the Seven Kingdoms do? They go to war with themselves… and squabble over a metal chair.”

Melisandre gazed out the window, and sighed. “The dragons may yet be our only chance, if the White God’s agents have not found them first.”

“On Braavos,” Arya said. “I heard rumours of dragon eggs hatching in the far east… and something about a silver-haired queen… but I just assumed it was sailors telling stories.”

“These are no tales of fancy,” Melisandre replied sternly. “R’hllor has indeed returned the dragons to us. I have seen them in my fires.” She looked back at Arya. “But the Great Other has raised his own monsters from the Lands of Winter – krakens and leviathans have been released into the Shivering Seas, and I have seen horrible great worms, tunnelling through the Northern snows. Our enemy is tightening the noose…” she said darkly.

Arya slouched back down in her bed. Whatever joy she got from seeing Mance again, had quickly evaporated.

“Rest now,little one.” Mance smiled, brushing the hair from Arya’s eyes. “We have time… and we’ve won a great victory here. You must recover your strength, and get yourself back to Winterfell in one piece.”

“Winterfell,” Arya replied, feeling drowsy all of a sudden. “Why? What’s happened...?”

“We’ll talk on the morrow,” he replied. Arya watched Melisandre and Mance rise, and exit the room, before drifting slowly back to sleep.

*   *   *

The next morning, Arya rose from her bed and ventured back out into the winter air. A cold wind wailed around the castle walls, but the snowstorms had faded, and even a few rays of sunshine were permitted through the grey Northern clouds. Castle Black rose up around her like a black-forest cake, iced with a layer of fresh snow. A week ago, the keep had seemed such a daunting place, but Arya now felt safe to be guarded by such hard stone walls.

She and Mance walked side by side along the castle parapets, surveying the fruits of their victory. Mance had not been lying when he said the wildlings outnumbered the Black Brothers; especially since most of the men who had served under Marsh had been transferred to the Shadow Tower or the Nightfort, in order to quell any more potential uprisings. There were a few dozen men practicing with sword in the yard, but most of their workforce was dedicated to rebuilding the battlements.

Arya was still very weak from her injuries. She needed a cane to walk, and Mance to help her up and down stairs. Her chest still ached, and she knew that her scars would never truly heal, despite Melisandre’s efforts. But Arya swore to herself that she would wield a sword again, even if it killed her.

“Stannis has captured Winterfell,” Mance said, as they stopped to rest in the rookery.

“Good,” Arya replied, nodding slowly. She had expected as much since their last talk.

“Apparently he’d formed a secret alliance with Wyman Manderly, the Lord of White Harbor, and overthrew Roose Bolton from the inside. Bolton managed to escape before the trap was sprung, but his lordship lies in ruins. All of his bannermen have deserted him, and he’s fled to the last relic of his failed dominion – Moat Cailin.” Arya nodded again, but said nothing. “I thought you’d be happy,” Mance said, confused.

“I’ll be happy when Roose Bolton’s head is on a pike,” she replied, scratching at her scars, for the hundredth time. “Who knows how long he can hole up above the Neck? My father always said Moat Cailin was one of the most impregnable strongholds in Westeros. And what’s to stop Stannis from anointing this Wyman Manderly as the new Lord of Winterfell. As the mountain men said, we may have simply traded one tyrant for another.” Mance was shaking his head.

“Stannis’ support is growing, but the houses of the North will bow to a Stark before they ever bow to a Baratheon. Word of your deeds at the Dreadfort have spread like wildfire. Stannis will need your blessing if he ever hopes to be king, Arya.”

“And what about Roose?” she asked.

“Howland Reed and his crannogmen have besieged Moat Cailin.” Mance replied. “Once Stannis has regrouped, he will join them, and likely gain the support of Greywater Watch in the process.” _Howland Reed,_ Arya thought, as they made their way back to the dining hall. _Where have I heard that name before?_

In the afternoon, Arya visited the black smith’s quarters, where her brother had stayed during his brief reign as 998th Lord Commander of the Watch. The room had not been entered since the mutiny, and so all of Jon’s belongings were still there. His clothes and boots littered the stone floor, and his bed was still unmade from the last time he slept in it. A large oak table stood against the window. It was covered in old maps and even older books. There was a half written letter to King Tommen in the centre, begging for reinforcements. In the top draw, Arya found a letter that she’d written to Jon years ago; back when she was living in King’s Landing with their father. The words were clumsy and the spelling appalling, but Jon had kept it in perfect condition, sealed within the pages of a heavy book from the Winterfell library. Arya read the letter over and over again, and her tears fell onto the page, making the ink run. She didn’t know why she wept; because she’d lost Jon, or because she’d lost the innocent little girl she used to be. He would never hug her again, and muss up her hair. He would never call her little sister.

Because she was highborn, Ser Denys Mallister, commander of the Shadow Tower, had offered Arya the Lord Commander’s keep as lodging. But Melisandre forbade it, claiming that it would take weeks to purify the tower of Marsh’s black magic. Instead, Arya chose to sleep in Jon’s room. She felt safe there, surrounded by her brother’s things. She felt like a piece of her heart had been returned to her.

Days passed, and as Arya’s strength returned to her, so too were the stockades of Castle Black rebuilt. Crow and wildling now worked side by side, training together and restoring the garrison back to its full strength. Arya knew Melisandre was right. This winter would be long and hard. They needed to be prepared. Marsh and his followers were piled up outside the gates of the castle, and set alight. All evidence of their treachery was burned, in a ceremony performed by Melisandre. Arya watched the spectacle from afar, and questioned how different this Red God really was from Marsh’s White one.

Order had been restored to the Wall, but there was still no word from Cotter Pyke, the commander of East-Watch-by-the-Sea. His last correspondence had been months ago, when he’d asked Jon to send a rescue party to Hardhome. Mallister spoke of organising a ranging to search for any survivors, but after such a long time it was unlikely there were any to speak of. According to Melisandre, the Others now held dominion over the Haunted Forest. Arya could not see any of them, even from the top of the Wall; but she could feel them, as she slept. Sharp, icy claws haunted her dreams, and some nights she woke up frightened and bloody.

Fearful that the Wall might descend back into chaos if a leader was not chosen soon, Denys Mallister held elections, and the following day was voted the 999th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. As his first official order, he gave the barracks of Greenguard to Tormund Giantsbane, in gratitude for his help in retaking the Wall. Tormund took with him five-hundred wildlings to re-garrison and man the castle, under the command of Mallister. The castle was renamed “Freeguard” in honour of its new custodians.

Arya sat at Jon’s desk, staring out at the fresh blanket of snow that had settled over the Gift. She could hear thunder crackling in the distance, and watched as black storm clouds swept in from the Shivering Sea. She thought of Nymeria, wandering alone, somewhere in the wild. It had been so long since she’d had a wolf dream, and she feared the direwolf may be dead. Nymeria was a tough old beast, but this winter was a fierce thing to behold. Even Snowball, who had been trained at White Harbor, had been found starved to death, a few miles east of the castle. “Please girl,” she prayed aloud. “Please be alright. I’ve lost everyone. I couldn’t bear to lose you too.” Arya had tried several times to ride out and search for the wolf, but she was still too weak. She wouldn’t last a day in this weather, not with a storm coming.

Just then, Arya spied something on the horizon; dark figures on a white canvas. They were knights, four of them, galloping across the snow. They were mounted on large black stallions, and rode beneath a banner of crimson and gold; a stag ringed by fire. Arya recognised it as the sigil of King Stannis Baratheon. It was identical to the one she and Mance had seen on the Kingsroad, when they’d fought those soldiers fleeing the Wall. Arya quickly fastened on some armour and leather. She strapped on gauntlets and sheathed a longsword into her belt. She would not have Stannis’ men tell the King they’d treated with a crippled little girl. She wrapped her wolf-skin cloak over her shoulders, and made her way down the castle stairs.

It was snowing again by the time the knights arrived at the gates. The storm clouds had settled over Castle Black as they dismounted. Arya awaited them in the dining hall. She sat in the Lord Commander’s seat, with Ser Mallister to her left and Mance Rayder to her right. An array of Black brothers and wildling were also present, though Lady Melisandre was strangely absent. The knights entered the hall with the King’s banner held high. A table of food and wine had been prepared for them, but they walked right past it. The largest of the four envoys made his way to the front and addressed them in a smug, booming voice.

“I am Ser Godry Farring,” he declared. “Also called the ‘Giantslayer’. I speak with the voice of King Stannis Baratheon, Lord of—

“Which King is he?” Arya interrupted. “The one on the Seastone Chair, or the one in Highgarden?” The knight shot Arya a poisonous glance.

“His graces’ throne in made of iron swords, melted down by dragon flame,” he fumed.

“Truly,” Arya replied, feigning surprise. “You’ve come all the way from King’s Landing to pay us a visit?” Ser Godry turned his gaze to Ser Mallister, his eyes bulging.

“Who is this insolent whelp who presumes to speak to me?” He spluttered at the Lord Commander. “I have come to treat with Lady Arya, of House Stark.”

“She is me,” Arya said coyly. Ser Mallister nodded in agreement. “And if I am less than courteous, it is because soldiers bearing that same banner attacked me and my companions, while we were travelling up the Kingsroad.” Godry looked back to where Arya was seated, and seemed to swallow his rage.

“My lady,” he said. He bowed meekly and offered a strained smile. “Please, I beg your forgiveness. I was told you’d be… Well, after the stories of what you did at the Dreadfort…”

“Is it true what they say?” one of the other knights blurted out. “That you fed Ramsay to your wolves.” Arya smiled. _Better they think me a savage, than a weakling_ , she thought. _After all, fear cuts deeper than swords._

“Death has a thousand faces, ser.” she said. “I may look young, but I assure you, my blade is quite practiced.” She patted the hilt of her longsword.

“Speaking of which,” Ser Godry said, clicking at one of the knights. “His grace has entrusted me with a gift, to give to you, as way of apology for the… er… unfortunate incident on the Kingsroad.” One of the men drew a long roll of cloth from his satchel, and presented it to Arya, kneeling low. Arya took the mound, and unravelled it slowly. Inside was longsword, with the blade wrapped in silk. The handle and hilt were immaculately crafted, with beautiful patterns etched into them. Arya slid the silk off… and gasped. The blade glowed a smoky red. Lines of white and crimson rippled along its razor-sharp edges.

“Valyrian steel,” she whispered. Arya let the clothe slip to the floor, and stood up. She swung the sword to and fro. For all its reach, the blade was incredibly light and smooth. The iron sang out, as it sliced through the air. “Where did you get this?” she asked, unable to take her eyes from the weapon.

“His grace seized the sword from a gang of outlaws, calling themselves the ‘Brotherhood without Banners’. We stumbled across them on our march to Moat Calin. They were led by a vicious wench, named… oh, what was? Stonehand?”

“Stoneheart,” one of the other knights corrected him.

“Yes, Lady Stoneheart,” Godry continued. “A vile creature. We found the scalps of over a dozen men in her satchel, along with stolen gemstones and a jewel-encrusted brooch.”

“The Brotherhood without Banners…” Arya said. “Weren’t they the brigands who sacked the Twins?”

“The very same,” Godry replied. “Most likely, they were fleeing the Riverlands. King Stannis hanged the lot of them.” _He should have knighted the lot of them,_ Arya thought, but she held her tongue. “His grace took only the sword. He told me, to tell you that ‘only a house of noble birth may brandish Valyrian steel’.” He gave her another bow, though to her it seemed mocking.

“We did once; a greadsword called ‘Ice’ that was spell-forged hundreds of years ago, in Valyria itself. But it was taken by the Lannisters after my father’s… passing.” Arya turned the blade over and over in her hands. It was warm to the touch. “‘Oathkeeper’,” she said, reading the small inscription at the base of the hilt. “Is that supposed to be Stannis’ subtle way of telling me I owe him my fealty? I swore this Stannis no oath’s.”

“That name was engraved by the sword’s previous owner,” Godry replied, “whoever he was. You may call it what you like. But you are bound to serve Stannis, regardless of the gifts he chooses to bestow apon you. He is your king by right of birth and blood. You should be grateful to obey him.” A deathly silence fell over the hall.

“My lady,” Arya said, coldly. “You shall address me as ‘my lady’, Godry Gooseslayer, or whatever absurd title it is you’ve given yourself.” Mance guffawed beside her, and there was a titter of laughter throughout the room.

Godry’s face reddened in anger. He reached into his cloak and produced a piece of parchment. “I was bidden to give you this… _my lady_.”

Arya took the parchment and unfurled it. It read:

 

 _“Dear Lady Arya_

 _I offer you this sword as symbol of friendship between the House’s Baratheon and Stark. Your father Eddard was an honourable man. He fought for my brother Robert, and won him the Iron Throne. I ask the same of you. You are the last of your father’s lineage. House Stark, the blood of the First Men, lives and dies within you. Give me your allegiance, and I shall give you back your kingdom._

 _The false lord, Roose Bolton, has been overthrown. His forces are crushed, his bannermen have fled, and his castle lies smouldering in the snow. I have retaken the fortress of Moat Cailin and placed Bolton in a dungeon, to await your answer. Arya Stark, pledge your fealty to me, and I will return you to your rightful seat in Winterfell, where you shall serve as my Warden of the North._

 _Signed, Stannis Baratheon: King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men; Lord of the Seven Kingdoms; and Protector of the Realm”_

 

At the bottom of the page was a blotch of ink in the form of a stag, ringed by flame. Arya folded the letter quietly, and placed it on the table in front of her. She picked up the sword again, and twisted its blade in the afternoon light. It glimmered and shone, throwing fragments of red and white across the stone walls. From the fires of Valyria to the icecaps of the Wall it had travelled, to be in her hands today.

“Alright Ser Godry, I’ll give your king my sword, but on one condition.”

“‘Condition’?” The knight repeated warily.

“Roose Bolon’s head is to be placed on a pike, above Moat Cailin, for all the southern kingdoms to see. Tell your king that. Give me Bolton’s head, and I’ll give him the North.”

“It will be done, my lady,” Ser Godry replied. “I swear it.”

“Oh, and before Stannis does the deed,” Arya added. “Make sure he utters these words. Make sure he tells Bolton that ‘Arya Stark sends her regards’. Roose will know what it means.” The four knights bowed, and then made their way out of the hall, into the howling winds outside.

Arya’s gaze turned back to her new sword. “Frostfang,” she murmured. “I’ll call it ‘Frostfang’.” She looked up at Mance and saw that he was smiling.


	6. Epilogue: A Ghost from the Past

** EPILOGUE **

**A Ghost from the Past**

Arya lay in bed, fast asleep. Her sword, Frostfang, leant against the nightstand; tall and proud. The light of the full moon filtered in through the window, and glimmered along its hilt. Castle Black was silent, though dark clouds were brewing far above. Arya tossed and turned, coiling the blankets around herself. She was dreaming. It was a wolf dream; the first she’d had in almost a month.

Now she was wading through the snow, her grey fur crusted with ice. Her breaths were deep and raspy, painting the air white in front of her snout. Nymeria limped towards the roots of a Weirwood tree, and collapsed beneath its shadow. The days were growing short and cold. There was no warmth in this place; no animals or plants to feed on; no caves or hollows to escape the bitter winds. There was only the harsh white snows, that stretched eternal, and the cruel, brooding sky above.

Nymeria’s stomach groaned in agony. It had been ages since she’d eaten, and she was becoming weaker with each passing day. Her fur with thinning, and had started to fall out in matted clumps. Her skin hung loose, and the cold had crept into her bones and stayed there. She could feel her life-force draining away. There was no life here; only death, and she would soon be one of them. She could no longer feel her other self; the little girl who sometimes shared her thoughts. “Ar-Yah” other men called her, though to Nymeria, she was her little wolf girl. They had separated while she was still young, but their spirits had never parted. But now… there was nothing.

Nymeria had been following the scent for weeks, but it was gone now; dissolved in the winds and rains. The scent had been old, but familiar; a smell that she had known at her mother’s teat. It had been her brother, the white wolf. She had felt his movements in the snow, and bound off after him, but now she was lost and alone… and death was snapping at her heels.

She looked down at her hind leg. There was still some meat on it, and warm blood coursing beneath it. The wolf thought for a moment, questioning whether she had the strength to do it; the will to dine on her own flesh. In the end, she just licked at the snow for a few drops of water. The freezing liquid burned as it trickled down her throat. Nymeria curled up tight beneath the Weirwood, and closed her eyes. _Sleep, sleep and never wake up._ Darkness closed in around the direwolf, and the sound of the wind began to fade.

“Little sister,” a voice whispered. Nymeria’s head perked up, and her eyes darted around. There was nothing there, save for the fog. She let out a meek howl, choking towards the end of it. “Litte sister…” There it was again; soft and familiar. Nymeria rose to her feet, threw back her head, and let out a great, soaring wail. When she had no more voice left to give, she collapsed onto her belly, panting heavily.

Then, from out of the silvery mists, two blood-red eyes appeared. A great wolf, larger than herself, came padding towards Nymeria. His fur was thick, and as white as snow. “Brother,” she barked, and bounded towards him. The two beasts collided, and went tumbling across the frost, arm in arm. She yelped with delight as her brother wrestled her to the ground, and greeted her with a flurry of licks to the snout. She pushed him onto his back, and bit his belly softy. Nymeria and Ghost threw back their heads and howled as one. Long and trembling, their voices sung out across the fields of wrinkled snow. The raging winds were finally drowned out by the sounds of two direwolves, reunited at last.

“Where have you been?” she whimpered. “I have been searching forever.”

“It’s okay,” he replied softly. “We are a pack again.” He licked the tears from her cheek. They returned to the Hart tree, and nestled into its thick roots. They clung together, feeding off each other’s warmth.

“I thought you were dead,” she breathed. “I thought I was the last one left.”

“I’m alive,” he replied. “This is my second life.”

“The Wall!” Arya cried. “You have to come back to the Wall… before it's too late…”

“Arya!” Jon cried. “You are in great danger… Get out of there…”

*   *   *

Arya sat up in bed with a fright. She was breathing hard, and her face was slick with sweat. A warhorn was sounding in the distance. _Jon,_ she thought. _He’s alive. He’s in Ghost’s body._ She could hear shouts and cries from outside her castle window. The horn was becoming louder and louder. The sound it made was like the screaming of children, and it sent razors of dread along Arya’s spine. _What is happening,_ she thought.

Arya’s door burst open, and Maester Harmon stumbled in. He wore a dressing gown and only half of his beard was shaved. “Lady Arya,” he cried, his expression thick with fear. “We have to leave now. Ser Mallister has ordered that I—” A deafening crack filled the air, and Arya’s bed lurched forward. She tumbled onto the floor, and fell into her nightstand with a crash. The whole castle seemed to be moving and shaking now. The crunching continued, as the warhorn grew louder and more blood-curdling. Arya and Maester Harmon were rolling to and fro across the floor.

“What is happening!” Arya cried.

“They’re attacking… from the forest…”

“Who?” She demanded, struggling to her feet. “Wildlings?”

“Not wildlings… Not men of any hue,” Harmon spluttered. “More like demons… demons carved out of ice… Like nothing I’ve ever seen…” Arya picked up Frostfang, and slid it into her belt. She helped Harmon to his feet, and the two staggered towards the door. Another crack sounded throughout the castle, and they were thrown back onto the stone floor.

The warhorn pierced through the night air, and Arya covered hers ears in pain. It felt as though icy claws were digging into her brain. Harmon had climbed back up, and was staring out the window with his mouth agape.

“Is it the Others!?” Arya yelled above the noise.

“It’s the Wall,” he replied, his eyes wide with fear. “Lady Arya… the Wall is falling!”


	7. Afterword

**AFTERWORD**

**Meanwhile, back in the Wolfswood…**

Hey guys! I’m on a lecture break for the next couple of weeks, so I thought I might pen a sequel of sorts. The story will continue on from where _Blood of the Direwolf_ left off. But instead of following Arya Stark’s exploits at the Wall, it will pick up with Jon Snow, who has been prowling the North in his direwolf form, ever since his death during the Night’s Watch mutiny.

And yes, my life is actually that awesome that I spend free time writing ASOIAF fan fiction :)

Anyway, enough blathering. I just wanted to thank everyone for their kind words and comments, and to let you know that you can read the first chapter of _The Bastard Reborn_ [here](../../437811).


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